Babysitting
by EmmyH
Summary: Another Daniel turns into a kid fic: in this one, Danny's mind is still the one we all know and love. How will he cope with everyone else thinking otherwise?
1. The Beginning

Takes place after Fragile Balance, but before Heroes. Actually, everything I write takes place before heroes. I wonder why….

(Aww, c'mon... every stargate fanfic writer has done a "SG-1 has shrunk" thing at some time... so here's my Little Danny story.)

5/4/06--Hey, all! I was going through all the chapters, and realized this one was not-like-the-others (well, actually, I finally decided to do something about it.) So instead of it all being 3rd person, it's in 1st--from various POVs, but mostly Jack's. Other than that, it's almost completely the same--although if you thought the ending to it was horrible the first time around--I cringed while writing it, but couldn't come up with something better ("And so the two unlikely friends began their life together")-- you might want to check the new one out. Not much longer, but much _better. _(Comtraya!)  
Enjoy!

* * *

_Jack_

Daniel is dying.

He was in a firefight. He was in the line of fire, and he was wounded, and now he's in a coma. And he's dying.

Dr. Frasier said there wasn't much hope for him; that his brain activity had slowed, and that it was more than likely he'd never wake up again.

Carter, Teal'c, Hammond, me and the gang decided that this wasn't acceptable, and SG-1 went to their fall-back plan for horrible events: we asked for help from aliens, starting with our allies, the Tok'ra.

Jacob came quickly enough: he'd just come back from a mission. He brought the healing device, but it was no good. Daniel's brain, Jacob said, is damaged. Dr. Frasier was right; he'll never wake up again.

So now we've invited the Asgard. Thor says basically what everyone else has said. "This body is irreparable. Although his mind is intact, it would take more technology than the Asgard possess to make him well, or even to awaken." Bowing of heads, clenching of jaws, fists. Tears. "However--" the voice continues, and we all look up.

"It is possible something similar to what was done to Colonel O'Neill could be achieved."

I blink. "Shrinking me," I say flatly.

The Asgard cocks its head. "Age regression would be a side effect, yes," says Thor, "because Daniel Jackson was recently given the same marker you have in your blood, O'Neill."

"So…you're suggesting we clone Daniel and then kill the original?"

Thor blinks slowly. "I am suggesting we clone Daniel and transfer his consciousness into the new body. Unfortunately, there is no way to save the original body from death."

"Will Daniel be around 15 like the colonel was when he was cloned?" Carter asks.

"It is impossible to say how old Daniel Jackson will be after being cloned," says Thor. "However, he will not be as old as this body is at this time."

"Are we actually considering this?" I ask incredulously.

"I believe Daniel would choose to live as a child rather than die, O'Neill," says Teal'c.

I sigh. "Yeah, I guess so." But who wants to bet I'm gonna take the fallout?

* * *

He's cute. 

I've never thought of Daniel as cute before. Yeah, he has some pretty cute facial expressions—especially the annoyed ones. Yes, I know that many of the women on the base have massive crushes on him, and nurses fawn over his adult body whenever he has so much as a splinter. And that time Sha're kissed him, and spent what seemed like five minutes on it, and when Daniel's face reemerged it was all dopey—that was really, really cute. But Daniel…

Thor hasn't turned him on yet. Or that's what Thor says, anyway. He explains it like a computer: "First we will upload Daniel Jackson's consciousness into his new body, and then we will install it into his brain. After that, it is simply a matter of turning Daniel on." 'We,' of course, meaning Thor.

I'm sure it's meant to reassure me—don't worry, this is easy; done it loads of times—but it kind of creeps me out. Is this a robot Jackson, like those Harlin things? Carter quickly quelled all my irrational fears by saying it's more like a _biological_ robot, which, after all, every living thing is. Isn't biology amazing?

I stop listening, and stare at the little boy lying in the bed. He can't be more than six years old…

Jeez. How is Daniel going to live with being six again? I would bet an awful lot that the guy didn't love it the first time around.

"It is done," says Thor, and beams away quickly. Seconds later the kid starts to stir.

* * *

_Sam_

I would be squealing if I was the squealing type. As it is, the little boy is extraordinarily cute. But when he opens those baby blues…

No. This is Daniel; Daniel would not take kindly to me cooing over him like he's a little kid.

Except now he _is_ a little kid… So maybe…

* * *

_Daniel_

I wake up in an infirmary bed.

A _very_ big infirmary bed.

And I feel weird, too. Not bad, exactly, although the feeling isn't exactly pleasant. Just…weird. Different.

I open my eyes, and find that everything looks different as well. Bigger, somehow—but also a lot less blurry than usual.

I looks at Sam. _Why's she looking at me like that?_ It's almost scary. I don't feel like interpreting that look at the moment, and move on.

_Jeez, Jack looks constipated._ But Jack looks constipated a lot. I have yet to figure out if this means Jack is thinking, or actually constipated. To tell the truth, I'd rather not think about it.

Teal'c, thank god, looks his usual stoic self. Janet looks concerned, which is unusual, considering I don't feel dead.

From here, my thoughts move to the obvious question: what happened?

And I draw a blank.

I know we were going to P42-868, but my memories stop upon entering the wormhole from Earth. Did something weird happen on that planet?

I know! I think excitedly. I've been transferred into the body of a chimpanzee! _That's_ why everything looks smaller.

Immediately following that thought: Eew. And then, oh my god that would _SUCK._ Can you imagine being a chimp member of SG-1? It'd be…just… not a good thing to think about.

My teammates are still looking at me strangely. I lick my lips: a gesture that feels strange, even after doing it for much of my adult life.

"What happened?"

The croak that emerges is expected; its high-pitched tone is not.

"You lay near Death's door," Teal'c says. Sounds like he's trying to justify himself.

* * *

_Jack_

This little kid just gazes up at us, and we watch him, wondering what the heck will happen now.

He swallows, frowns, and says, "Why do I feel so…weird?"

Janet frowns as well. "Are you feeling sick? Can you tell me what you're feeling?" She fusses, lays her tireless hand on his fevered brow, obviously secure in her role as mother/protector/doctor.

Alas, it is not to be: Daniel jerks away. "I'm _fine,_" he says, "except for not knowing what the fuck happened!"

"Language," Janet murmurs, stunned. I bet she has never heard a six-year-old say 'fuck.' I'll also bet she hopes she never will again.

Daniel sighs impatiently. "Well, honestly, guys. You're all leaning over me when I wake up, _ogling_ me, and then you won't tell me what's going on?"

Silence. I clear my throat uncomfortably.

A six-year-old Daniel fixes me with a piercing glare. "Jack?" he asks, threateningly. Teal'c smiles broadly at his tone. Sam bites her lip.

"Erm…" I mutter.

Daniel is sitting up now, flailing his arms. "What don't you—" He stops, noticing said arms. Frowns. Studies them, brings his hands closer to his face. "What are these?" he asks, conversationally.

"Your hands," Teal'c supplies helpfully.

Daniel blinks. Frowns. A look of horror flashes over his face. "Wha—"  
He stops suddenly. Hops off the bed, which is a lot taller than he remembers. Runs to the infirmary bathroom.

The mirror is too high. He turns back to the small crowd we have here. Smiles. "How old am I?" he asks pleasantly.

"Mentally or physically?" Sam asks, subdued by the three-foot-tall boy.

"How about you give me both." Daniel's voice is low: if he was a decade older the tone might be called dangerous. As it is, he sounds ludicrous.

"Mentally, 38," she says. "Physically…" she squints, staring at him, and quickly gives up, deferring to Janet.

"Around six, I'd say," Janet proclaims.

"Around six, you'd say," Daniel mimics. "Would anybody care to tell me why I am around six you'd say years old?"

"You lay near Death's door," Teal'c repeats.

Daniel glances at him, throwing him a scathing look. "Yes, you said that already," he says.

"Daniel," says Janet firmly, "maybe you should try being a little nicer."

Daniel ignores her. "Jack," he says, turning to the named personage, "what's going on?"

I waste no time in telling the story. "You were dying. The Asgard made you a mini-me..uh, mini-you. Your consciousness was transferred from the dying body to the other one." The 'other one' standing right in front of him, of course.

Daniel blinks. "And I just happened to have the same problems your clone had?"

I shrug. "To be honest, I didn't really get that part."

Daniel nods, turns to his doctor. "Janet," he says brusquely, "I'd like to be discharged, please."

Janet, of course, is astonished. "I'm afraid I can't allow that for some time," she says. Daniel looks pleadingly at me: I've saved him before. I, however, shake my head: I'm _so_ not getting involved in this one.

* * *

The problem, of course, is his age. At six years old, Daniel can't drive. In fact, he should be sitting in a booster seat. He also isn't allowed to own a house--most parents would be forbidding him to cross the street. 

So he has to have a guardian. The guardian isn't so much to take care of Daniel, as to reassure the public that a six-year-old isn't wandering the streets alone. Essentially, Daniel needs a chauffer.

"Which is what parents are anyway," Janet mutters, as she finishes explaining this.

Her tests come back negative for bad stuff, and positive for Daniel's new age. So the problem is letting Daniel go home: we can't, of course. Thus, a guardian.

"Am I gonna be fired from the SGC?" Daniel asks nervously. He's kneeling on one of the Briefing Room's leather chairs: otherwise he's not tall enough to reach the table with his elbows.

Glances are exchanged. "I think missions are out," Janet says. "At least until you're thirteen or so."

"But I can still translate stuff," Daniel argues. "If it's a planet that's safe, where I won't need to be big, I can go there. I can go on archaeological digs."

"You may not carry a gun until you're old enough to handle one," Hammond says. Daniel frowns.

"Who's going to be his guardian?" Sam asks.

I hear myself answering before I know I'm talking. "I will," I say. Daniel glares at me, but I ignore him and shrug. "He's my best friend."

Not for long, says the gleam in Daniel's eye.

* * *

Janet insists I put a booster seat in my car. 

"I will _not_ sit in a _booster seat_," Daniel says, the hated words dripping with disgust.

"Then you won't leave the mountain," Janet says pleasantly. Daniel glares coldly at her, but she doesn't budge. Finally, the little man stomps away, muttering about "overbearing, mothering vultures."

He comes back an hour later with evidence that children six and over don't need booster seats, according to state law. Janet smiles beatifically. "Well, that body is less than a week old," says Janet. "And booster seats are recommended for children up to eight or nine years old."

This does not go over well.

* * *

"Hey Daniel?" I tap tentatively on the door to Daniel's office. 

"It's open," says a dull voice. I find Daniel in his office, reading _War and Peace._ Watching a little kid read _War and Peace_ is amusing, to say the least, but I refrain from laughing. "I got a booster seat," I say warily.

"How nice for you," says Daniel. He turns a page. "I was thinking of moving to the Land of Light."

I blink. "You're aware that the woman you went caveman with has a kid, right?"

Daniel gazes at his book, not answering. He knows.

"And you know she conceived when she was touched, right?" A blink. Glance at me. Focus attention back to the book.

"And it's possible you're the…father?"

A sharp sigh. "I asked years ago if she wanted the kid to have DNA testing, and she said no. I'd've provided for it, but she wanted her husband to help her rear it."

"'It?'" I ask incredulously. "Don't you know its gender?"

"Well, most of the kids conceived by two touched ended up being hermaphrodites," Daniel says reasonably.

I dismiss this. "Whatever," I say. "My point is, you could be running around playing around with _your own kid_, who is _your age._ Doesn't that sound a little creepy to you?"

Daniel blinks again. "Fine, I'll go to one of our other allies."

"Because of a booster seat, you're willing to throw your life away?"

"Yep."

I sigh. "I've got it installed in my car. Tell me when you want to go home."

* * *

Two days later, Daniel finally caves. It might have to do with the fact that the smallest jumpsuit we could find is still for someone half again as tall as he is. It could be that he misses the outdoors. Or it could be because he's missing out on his Starbucks fixation. 

Whatever the reason, I'm not inclined to argue. I've been to all the kid's furniture stores, toy stores, clothing stores…trying to figure out what Daniel needs, versus what a regular six-year-old needs. For instance, the Pee-Wee Baseball Set might not go over as well as the salesperson thinks.

Here's what I have gotten: a bed for people more Daniel's size, now that Daniel is no longer six feet tall. And two stools: one for the kitchen, to reach plates and glasses, and one in the bathroom so he can see himself in the mirror.

I'm pretty sure Daniel should have some other stuff, but I can't think of anything else. Oh, well; I'll figure it out later.

* * *

I've pulled some of Charlie's old stuff out of storage, for Daniel to wear until they can go shopping. It's musty and smells like mothballs, and Daniel complains that he's losing brain cells by wearing it. At least, I reason, Daniel won't have to go clothes shopping wearing mini-BDUs.

* * *

Leaving the mountain, the guard on duty at the sign in-sign out post kneels. "Hey, buddy," he says to a scowling Daniel, patting his head. "What's your name?" 

"Daniel Jackson," he says loudly. "I have two PhDs. I also have some very burly friends, and if you ever do that again they'll beat you up."

The guard looks up at me, startled. I cover my eyes with one hand. "Daniel …" I mutter.

"Jack," Daniel replies calmly. He snags my pant pocket, which is as high as he can reach, and tries to pull me to the car.

I easily remove Daniel's little hand. "We have to sign out, Danny," I say.

Daniel sighs, closes his eyes. "Fine," he says. I quickly sign, then look down at Daniel. The podium used to sign in and sign out is four and a half feet off the ground.

I swiftly pick Daniel up by the waist so he can sign. Daniel wiggles a little, but figures out what I'm doing and signs. He's not used to his little hands quite yet, so his signature is a little messy. "Done," he says, dropping the pen on the podium. "Put me down."

I do so. We turn and walk towards my car.

The guard stares. I know what he's thinking: That is _not_ a normal kid.

* * *

We go to a clothing store for kids. 

"I want some slacks," Daniel says. I look at him, but say nothing. "And button down shirts," Daniel adds. I sigh. I haven't been planning on getting Daniel geek clothes.

"Six-year-olds look weird like that," I say.

"Then it's a good thing I'm not six, huh?" Daniel retorts.

I sigh. "You _look_ six!"

"Last I checked, I was paying," Daniels says. "When _I_ pay for _my_ clothes, it's _my_ choice."

I roll my eyes. "Fine," I say.

We can't find what Daniel wants, and the little tyke is getting peeved. "All I want," he says quietly to the clerk, "is some slacks. Khakis would be perfect. Now, do you have those, or not?"

The saleswoman, unperturbed, smiles. "We don't have any of those, little boy. But we have some nice jeans. Really, jeans are what you need, at your age." She starts walking towards the section that supposedly holds jeans, but Daniel walks towards the exit. I follow helplessly, hearing mutters of "stupid crap stores that don't even have pants…"

"Let's go to Gap Kids," I suggest.

Daniel narrows his eyes. "Gap Kids?" he repeats suspiciously.

"Yeah," I say. "Whenever Charlie needed something fancy, that's where Sara would take him."

Daniel shrugs. "Fine," he says.

At Gap Kids, everything is solid colors, fancy fabrics, and smiling, golden children in ads.

A young salesperson, maybe 20, comes up to them. "Can I help you guys?" she asks amicably. Daniel smiles politely, and I sag in relief: this is the first pleasant thing Daniel's done all day.

"Could you show me where the slacks are, please?"

She nods briskly. "This way," she says, and Daniel and I venture into the bowels of Gap Kids.

Half an hour later, Daniel and I are in the check-out line. Daniel hasn't figured out his money situation yet—people look strangely at young children using credit cards—so I'm paying, and Daniel will pay me back later.

"Glasses next," I say. Daniel makes a face. "I'm seeing a lot better than when I was…big," Daniel says.

"Yeah," I reply, "but Janet still says you need glasses so we're getting glasses." She'll get mad at _me_ otherwise.

"Jaaa—acck! Kid glasses look idiotic!"

I shrug. "Oh, well," I say. "All I can make you do is get them. It's up to you to wear them."

At this, Daniel brightens up considerably. "Okay, then," Daniel says.

* * *

Most of the glasses actually aren't that bad. Daniel sets out to find the weirdest pair he can find, on the basis that he won't have to wear them. He finally finds some white ones with pink nose nubs. I roll my eyes, but don't comment.

* * *

We stop at Daniel's apartment. There are little hot pink tags for Daniel to put on things he wants to put in my house, and little lime green tags for things to put in storage until he's older. Daniel grabs the pink ones and starts going crazy. 

I stare. "Daniel, we can't fit all of that stuff in my house."

"Move, then," Daniel says.

"I will give you your own room," I say. "I will even let you keep some of your artifacts in the house, so long as I can still walk in there. But you can't bring all this stuff."

Daniel pouts, and slows down.

After a while, we've figured out what they can fit into my house, and we go.

* * *

When we get to my house, I immediately turn on the television, where a Cubs game is going on. Daniel sits down with his copy of _War and Peace._

"How's the game?" he asks, after a minute.

"Good," I reply. "How's the book?"

"Good," he says, his nose tucked semi-permanently into the pages.

I smile. "Good."


	2. Morning

_

* * *

_

Hello all! I really enjoyed writing this, and hope you enjoy reading it!

I forgot the disclaimer before, so here goes: They're not mine.

Enjoy:D

_

* * *

Jack_

The most annoying noise in the universe is that of an alarm clock. I swear that's how they designed it.

0600, and the high-pitched _beebee, beebee, beebee_ can be heard all over the house. And I don't even know how to turn it off. Thankfully, it does so automatically after half an hour, but still…

I reluctantly lurch out of bed, eyes still closed, and head for the bathroom.

Twenty seconds later, I walk out again, and into the hallway: I've forgotten something.

* * *

Daniel is sleeping, huddled completely under the covers of the queen bed still in my former guest bedroom—although I've ordered Daniel's new bed, it hasn't arrived yet.

I shake the lump under the blankets. "Daniel, wake up," I whisper.

"G'way," mumbles the lump.

I shake it again. "We have to go to work," I insist. "C'mon."

The blankets are hurled aside. Daniel opens one eye and looks at me. "You are evil," he says.

I smile sweetly. "I know," I reply. Now that he's exposed, I can begin my attack. I pick him up and carry him to the bathroom, and he starts squirming.

"Putmedownputmedownputmedown!"

"Okay," I say. I set him down in front of the sink. "Brush your teeth," I order. Daniel looks up and scowls. "Just because I'm short doesn't mean you can order me around."

"I'm your CO. Remember?"

Indistinct mutters barely reach my ears as I walk away.

* * *

I've been in the kitchen for only a few minutes when little Daniel slouches in, obviously still wishing he were in bed.

"Morning," I comment, and notice he's going straight to the coffee pot. "Uh, is that such a good idea? You're not exactly in the ideal age range for coffee anymore."

"Ask me if I care," Daniel says grumpily. He's pouring a cup of coffee while standing on the little footstool I got him so he could reach the counters.

"Seems like someone got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning," I remark quietly, and blue eyes glare at me from a babyish face as Daniel carries the cup to the table.

"Actually, I was forcibly removed from the wrong side of the bed," he clarifies.

I sigh, and gesture to the coffee cup, which is 5 inches in diameter. Daniel bought it a few years ago for when he's at my house. "Is that all you're having?"

"Yup." Daniel's look tells me I'll regret questioning him further.

"Janet's gonna kill me," I mutter.

* * *

"So how is he?" Sam asks.

"Okay," I reply. "Weird, but okay."

As soon as I walk into Carter's lab, she brings up the topic of our new Daniel. She's fascinated by the connotations that go with putting a nearly 40-year-old consciousness into the brain of a six-year-old. I'd tell her how scary Daniel suddenly is, but I'm counting on her as a babysitter.

"Weird how?" Sam presses.

I shrug. "Well, he's so little… but he's so _Daniel._ Pissy Daniel, anyway. And then again, every once in a while he does something really juvenile."

She smiles sympathetically. "It's gotta be hard for him," she says. "A smart guy like him suddenly stuck in a tiny body and told he can't take care of himself anymore. I'd be pretty cranky too, I imagine."

I shrug. "Yeah, well he's certainly that."

* * *

At work, I don't have a lot to do. Really, my job on base is to be around in case there's an emergency. So once I leave Carter's office, it's natural for me to head to Daniel's.

I find him sitting dejectedly on the floor, and am reminded of Charlie: he did the same thing when he was upset.

"What's wrong?" I ask quietly, and he looks up, surprised.

"Oh, hey, Jack," he says, forcing a smile on his face. "I was just—thinking. It helps to think here."

"What do you mean?" I inquire, walking over to sit down next to him.

He shrugs. "Nothing, really," he murmurs. I wait.

After a few minutes, he says, "It's so different. I mean, my body feels different, but so does my mind." He pauses. "It's harder to concentrate. I work on translating something from a language I know as well as English, and after half an hour I just can't do it anymore. I mean, it still makes sense, but it feels like every ten seconds my mind's wandering."

I smile. "Sounds a little like me in high school," I say, and Daniel smiles back--a quick smile, practically gone before it's there, but I saw it. "Look," I continue, "I have an idea about this." I look to him for approval, but his face is unreadable, so I keep talking. "Work for however long you can, and then take a ten-minute break. Work again, break. Work, break. It might be a little less efficient, but in the end it might help you not get so stressed out."

Daniel's looking at me dubiously, and I frown. "At least try it." He nods. "Thanks," he whispers, subdued.

"Is…this why you've been so grumpy?" I ask, carefully.

Daniel looks at me, indignant. "I have not been grumpy!" I raise my eyebrows, Teal'c-like. _Oh, really?_

Daniel frowns and bites his lip: a very cute gesture. "Well, maybe I've been a little…sarcastic."

"Definitely sarcastic," I agree.

A small smile appears on his face. "Sorry."

"No problem. But people are gonna start giving you weird looks if you're so snarky all the time."

Daniel sighs. "I just want to be normal," he remarks quietly.

"When was the last time you felt normal?" I ask, curious.

His small face squinches in thought. "Umm…I was told my mom had a very normal pregnancy."

I snort. "Good answer."

"But now I feel even weirder than before," Daniel says. "When—before, the last time I was a kid, I was precocious, a dork, but I was still a kid. I _felt_ like a kid, and that was okay, because I was one. But now I feel like an adult, only sometimes I don't. And I don't know which I'm supposed to be." He sighs. "It's confusing."

"I know," I say softly. "It'll be okay."

"You don't know that," he retorts bleakly.

"Nope," I declare. "But we've always done okay before. Why not now?"

The little boy shrugs and leans against me, and I put my arm around his small shoulders. I can tell Daniel doesn't quite believe me, but he is reassured, and that's enough for now.

* * *

Hello…thank you, everyone, for your comments! However, there was one I sorta disagreed with. Ryu Gaia: First, Daniel is not, as is suspected by most FF writers, a sniveling wretch. If that's not what you meant by "out of character," I'm sorry. Second, "First person isn't a very good way to write stories"? What about To Kill a Mockingbird, or One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, or The Great Gatsby, or Jane Eyre? Those were pretty good stories. Also, the first chapter wasn't in first person, it was in 3rd person omniscient. That means the guy narrating knows everything, even thoughts. If you don't like my stuff, sorry. That's just the way I write.

Now it's time to review this sucker! Go on, press the little button!


	3. Matchbox and School

Yay, finally got it done. Sorry it took so long: school+college visits+college applications doesn't equal a lot of free time. So...I hope you like it!

_Daniel_

It's Saturday, my first weekend as a working six-year-old, and to celebrate, Sam, Teal'c, Jack and I have gone to McDonald's. Don't ask me for Jack's reasoning on this: apparently McDonald's is the standard for things like this, although I fail to understand how being transformed into a six-year-old while working on a military base that regularly communicates with aliens can be described as 'standard,' ever.

Despite my insisting to the pimply teenager at the cash register that I didn't need a toy, he gave me one anyway, which was pretty nice of him, I suppose. I do remember loving those things when I was a kid. This toy is a little car that zooms across the table when you back it up, which was a little bit interesting—twice. I quickly lost interest in the function of my race-car though, and Jack has taken over, trying to fly it with record speeds into his large order of French Fries. Sam is trying hard not to laugh. Teal'c has his eyebrows way up there, as usual. I glance at other people in the restaurant, and see several people glancing surreptitiously at our table, looks of incredulity on their faces.

Jack suddenly looks up, and realizes that people are staring at him. "What?" he asks, but stops playing with the car.

"I'm going to the bathroom," I say, slipping off my chair. Funny: I'm closer to the ground now than I was on the chair.

"Okay," Jack says casually, and I walk in the direction of the bathroom. I'm pretty lucky that Jack volunteered to be my "guardian." He doesn't treat me like I'm a little kid—well, he treats me like I'm _little_, but not like I'm a kid. Every time I see Janet, she starts cooing over me. Sam's not too much better. She tries to treat me like an adult, but we get in the middle of a project and we're getting excited and suddenly she looks over at me and realizes she's working with a munchkin, and everything gets very awkward. So I'm glad I'm living with Jack, despite the booster seat and horrible taste in food.

I'm starting to realize that everything is an annoyance to a kid. Everything's too big! The toilet is too high for me to…you know…standing up, and I can barely reach the sink. I can't even touch the paper towel dispenser standing on my toes, so I settle for wiping my hands on the pants Janet got me (peach-colored velvet with jean material at the cuffs.) My purpose in wearing the pants is to destroy them as soon as possible, without appearing to do it on purpose.

As I walk back to my table, I get disoriented, probably because of the benign giants smiling down at me from apparently tremendous heights. After a minute, however, I get my bearings. As I climb up onto my seat, I realize that Jack's got his eyes fixed on the play area.

"Jack?" I ask casually. "What're you looking at?"

He tears his eyes away from the play area to look at me. "Hey Daniel," he says, "you think you'd like…" He gestures towards the ball pit.

"To go in the ball pit?"

"Yeah," he says eagerly. "It'd be fun."

I blink. "No, it wouldn't."

"Oh." His face falls. "You don't think you'd enjoy that?"

"_No,_" I stress. "Have you succumbed to the belief that my mind has regressed along with my body, or are you just looking for a vicarious romp in the ball pit?"

"I believe the latter explanation is the correct one, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c says solemnly. Sam snorts.

"Never mind," Jack says, aggrieved. "You try to help a guy have a good time, and see what happens," he mutters.

* * *

When we get within sight of Jack's house, I'm surprised to see a car already in the driveway. It's not one I know. I frown: usually when unexpected things happen to SGC personnel, it's not very fun.

I unbuckle my seat belt as Jack pulls into the driveway alongside the car, and then I open Jack's car door. There's a woman leaning against the car. She's maybe 35, 40 at most. Her dark brown hair is plain, and she looks harried. She's studying some papers, but looks up when Jack's truck pulls into the driveway. She glances at me, but immediately looks at Jack once he steps out of the car.

"Hello," Jack says, with a disarming smile. "I'm Jack." He waits, and the woman stares at him for a second, then, abruptly, laughs. "Oh, right! I'm Lillian Stevens. I'm a social worker."

Jack blinks. "Okay…Um, forgive me for being rude, but what's a social worker doing parked in my driveway?"

"Well…" She suddenly becomes businesslike. "It's come to the State's attention that you've taken a child in." She gestures to me, and I scowl. I'm getting a bad feeling about her. She continues, "We wanted to make sure everything was legalized with his guardianship, since it's known that you don't have a child."

Jack frowns. "Social services knows I don't have a child," he repeats.

"Yes," says Lillian. "A co-worker of mine lives across the street." She gestures to the butt-ugly house that was empty up until six months ago.

Jack frowns. "Knew she was nosy," Jack mutters, then raises his voice. "Well, as long as you're here, why don't you come in?"

* * *

"The Air Force, my employer, is currently working on the adoption papers," Jack says to Lillian. We're sitting in the living room, Jack and I on the couch and Lillian in one of the easy chairs. "Daniel's situation is classified, so he needs someone with clearance. I can get whoever you need to vouch for me."

Lillian looks properly concerned. "Well, if you know the former guardian, we should have his or her statement, saying he or she believes you would make a good parent for their child. Barring that, we would need to evaluate you and your home to see if you could make a good foster or adoptive parent for the child."

"The child's name is Daniel," Jack says cheerfully. "And he's sitting right here in front of us. Daniel's former guardian can't give a statement for classified reasons, and I think Daniel could tell you, just fine, how good I am at parenting.

She blinks, cow-like. "Be that as it may, we need to do this through official channels. It's good that you're getting the adoptive papers done. Have you enrolled him in school yet?"

Jack shakes his head slightly at the abrupt topic change. "He's…being home schooled," Jack says.

Lillian nods. "May I see what he's been working on?"

Jack frowns, at a loss. "Um…we…usually leave it at the base. That's where we do the work, you know."

"Oh, okay," she says brightly. "What are you working on right now?"

"Um…" Jack falters. "Daniel, why don't you tell Lillian what you've been working on?"

I shrug. "Oh, you know, math and English and history and…stuff." I don't really know what kids in the first through fourth grades do: I _was_ home-schooled, the first time around, with my parents before they died. And when I went into the public school system, they tested me and decided to move me up a grade.

"Do you know your letters and what they sound like?"

I blink. I don't remember _not_ knowing my letters. "Yes," I say, and can't help a tacit _duh_ sneaking out in my body language.

"Can you read this?" She hands me a sheet of paper, apparently about me. "That word," she says, pointing.

"'Boy,'" I say immediately. "Listen, I'm gonna be able to read pretty much anything you give me, so this is a waste of time."

"You can't read Chinese," Jack reminds me, and I roll my eyes.

"Well," says Lillian, "I still think Danny should be in school. It would give him the opportunity to interact with children his own age."

"But I don't want to be in school," I protest.

"Be that as it may, you need to learn to socialize," says Lillian. She looks back at Jack. "I'll set it up for you," she says. "There's a nice little school very close to here that Danny can go to, okay?"

"Daniel," I correct, but she ignores me.

"I really don't think this is necessary," Jack says, but Lillian frowns. "Don't you want your little boy to have fun playing with children his own age?"

"Yeah, well, that doesn't exactly constitute fun to me," I mutter.

"Danny," she says, looking straight at me, an earnest expression on her face, "you need to try this, okay? You need to try this or you'll be sad, because you won't have anybody to play with."

Whoa, weird lady. I _might_ talk to a two-year-old like that. By six years old, any self-respecting child isn't gonna fall for that line. I close my eyes and turn away. "I'm not even gonna dignify that with an answer," I mutter to Jack. He grins, and turns to Lillian. "This _really_ isn't necessary," he says firmly.

"I think it is," she says, equally confident. "How about this: If it doesn't work out in three weeks, and a child psychologist says Danny's social skills are okay, Danny doesn't have to go back to school."

"So…school for three weeks?" I ask, suspiciously.

"Yes," says Lillian decisively. "Here's my number." She hands Jack a piece of paper. "The school will contact you with information like starting and ending times of the day. But if you have any questions for me, don't hesitate to call." She stands quickly, purse and papers in hand, and sweeps out of the room. A moment later, we hear the front door close.

Jack and I stare at each other. "That woman," Jack says, "is a force of nature."

"Yeah," I say confidently, "but we know the President wants me to stay on the program. And he's a stronger force of nature than she could be, right?"

Jack shakes his head. "I hope so."

* * *

Didja like it? Hate it? have a craving for ice cream in the middle of reading it? Mm, ice cream. Anyway, please review! I'll love you forever and be your best friend.


	4. First Day of School

_Jack_

"C'mon, General!" I whine over the phone. "The man has two PhDs! He does _not_ need to go back to elementary school!"

"I've already told you, Jack," Hammond says heavily. "The President feels it's prudent to let Social Services believe they're winning right now. If necessary, we will step in, but not for this."

"So you're just gonna make him go to school for three weeks?"

"Yes," Hammond repeats patiently. "We will give him three weeks off in order for him to go to elementary school, and then he can return to work."

"God, he's going to hate this," I mutter.

"Jack, I have to go," Hammond says. "I have a meeting with SG-12 in five minutes."

I nod, though I know he can't see me. "Okay. Thanks, George." I hear the _click_ of the phone being hung up at the other end, and murmer, "For nothing…"

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I look into Daniel's room, and see my child prodigy lying on his new bed, reading his new issue of the American Journal of Archaeology.

I clear my throat, and he looks up, smiling crookedly. "Hammond said I have to go," he states, and I nod.

"The President said he'll only intervene if they decide to extend the school thing past three weeks," I say.

He shrugs. "Well, it's only three weeks, right?"

I roll my eyes as I walk over, and sit on the bed next to him. "Don't even try to tell me you're okay with this," I warn.

A sigh. "Fine. I'm not okay with it. In fact, I'm really pissed off that I have to do this. But I don't have any other options, do I?"

I frown speculatively. "We could both disappear into Cheyenne mountain for the rest of our natural lives…"

He squints his eyes in thought. "I dunno… they don't have very good coffee on the base."

"That's the best way to make the decision," I agree, holding back a smile. "So if you want good coffee, you'll have to go to school."

"You're laughing at me," Daniel accuses.

"Daniel," I say as I rise, "your coffee habit has always been amusing to me." He frowns, but doesn't comment. I continue, "Don't worry. I'll help you with the homework."

I hear him snort softly as I leave the room.

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0630, Monday morning, I wake up to the dulcet tones of my alarm clock. Daniel has shown me, in our week together, how to turn it off, so I do, taking pride in my accomplishment.

After this task is completed, I head over to the other bedroom to awaken The Bear. The Bear does not like to be disturbed, especially in the morning. Unfortunately, this morning he has an appointment with the Cheyenne Mountain school district, and as they are apparently worse bears than The Bear, I am loath to let him be late.

"Daniel," I call, sticking my head into his doorway. "Time to get up." I wait.

A muffled groan emerges from the massive cave of blankets heaped on the child-sized bed. The blankets shift for a few seconds, and then a head appears somewhere around the foot of the bed. "I'm sick," Daniel states sleepily, calmly.

"Oh, yeah?" I ask skeptically. "With what?"

"Um…Malaria. Or smallpox, or syphilis, or something."

"Or something," I murmur.

"That's right," Daniel says, and his eyes shut.

"Not so fast," I counter. "C'mon, get up."

"Oh, c'mon, Jack," he whines, eyes still closed. "Just tell them I'm sick."

"No," I say firmly. "School. If that Lulu finds out I let you stay home, she'd probably take you away on the spot."

That does the trick. Daniel groans one more time, but this time he sits up, shedding blankets and pillows. "Fine, I'm up," he moans. "Happy? Now go away so I can get dressed."

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After a shower and a cup of coffee, I feel ready to face any demonic elementary school teachers we may run across, and settle down at the breakfast table, toast in one hand and newspaper in the other. I don't even say anything when an extremely grumpy Daniel thumps down the stairs.

I manage (barely) to get Daniel to have something besides coffee. By the time we're done with breakfast, I realize that if we don't get going immediately, Daniel's going to be late.

The car ride is only five minutes, so we get there pretty quickly. At the front office, right next to the main entrance, a very geeky-looking secretary is typing at a Mac computer.

"Excuse me?" I ask, and she looks up, smiling.

"Hello," she says. "How can I help you?"

"I, uh…" Now how do I say this? "I need to enroll my—or I guess he's already been enrolled, but he needs—"

Thankfully, she helps me out. "You're Daniel Jackson's guardian? The social worker had it fixed up, right?"

I nod gratefully, and she continues, "The principal told me about it. Daniel is going to go to Mrs. Fern's first grade class. Is that okay?"

I nod, and Daniel nods. "Do you think you could tell us where to go?" I ask, and she smiles helpfully. "Just go out the office and take a left. There'll be some stairs at the end of the hallway; go up. When you get into the next hallway up, it'll be the third doorway on the right."

"Thank you," Daniel says quietly, and we leave the office.

As we walk down the hallway, I ask, "Do you want me to go in with you, or should I leave?"

Daniel shrugs. "Whatever," he says. "I don't care."

I frown in thought. "Well, I assume that the norm is for me to go in, so I guess I'll do that."

"Okay," he says.

Walking down the hall, it's obvious where Mrs. Fern's classroom is. There are cut-outs of ferns surrounding it, as well as dinosaurs that look way nicer than the history museums' versions. In big bubbly letters on the door, it says, 'Mrs. Fern's Classroom. Welcome!'

I open the door, Daniel right behind me, and the door nearly bumps into the butt of a kid sitting on the floor. He looks up, and, seeing an adult, smiles in apology. "Sorry," he says, scooting over so he's not in the way of the door.

On the other side of the big room are about 15 students' desks, with a big one—the teacher's—facing them. A large woman walks over to us with a matronly smile. "Hello," she says, looking at Daniel. "You must be Daniel Jackson. I'm Mrs. Fern."

"Nice to meet you," Daniel says diffidently.

"Would you like your dad to stay today," asks Mrs. Fern, "or do you think he can go?"

Daniel shrugs. "He's not my dad," is all he says.

Mrs. Fern laughs softly. "Okay. Well, why don't you go play with the other kids, while your…"

"Guardian," I supply, and she nods.

"While your guardian and I talk for a minute."

Daniel nods and walks away. But instead of introducing himself to the boys smashing block buildings in the corner, he sits at a desk and faces us, his eyes saying, "You're going to tell me later what she's saying."

I focus my attention on the teacher. "He's certainly a quiet looking boy," she says.

I shrug. "He's amazingly loquacious when he knows you well enough." I pause, thinking how best to prepare her for Daniel. "He's very mature—we've been home schooling him, and he's doing high school work pretty easily. So just keep that in mind. If you talk down to him, he probably won't speak to you ever again."

She smiles and nods. "Okay. Thank you. Just so you know, parent-teacher conferences are next Wednesday. I won't have much to give you by then, but I'll tell you what's going on." I nod, and she continues. "Homework is minimal in first grade, but they may have short assignments, and there is a big project coming up in Social Studies. If you can't pick Daniel up at 3:00, there's a daycare in the basement that he can stay with until six. Any questions?"

I smile. "No," I say. "Thanks. I'm just gonna…" I gesture to Daniel, and at her nod, walk over to him.

"What's up?" Daniel asks quietly.

"I'll tell you what she said later," I murmur. "It wasn't a big deal. But I wanted to remind you: if you teach these guys any…questionable stuff, please make sure their parents won't understand it. Okay?"

Daniel grins. "Okay," he says innocently.

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Wow! They like me!

Okay. I'm gonna respond to some of the people who have very nicely given me reviews. First of all, a general response: THANK YOU FOR REVIEWING! PLEASE DO SO AGAIN! I LOVE YOU ALL!

Okay, got that out of the way. Now…

Zsuzsu: Don't worry; not too much school. And first grade is hardly difficult, especially for Mr. Super Genius Jackson. Regarding the college thing…. Don't tell anyone, but I'm _terrified_. Despite the fact that I _love_ one of my "fallback schools." Scared to death. Yeah.

XRachX: I've met very few social workers, and the ones I have met are very nice. So I'm making Lillian up as I go along. Hopefully I'll do a good job… :D

P.L.S.: I completely agree with the treating-kids-like-they-understand-you thing. Funny thing is, despite the fact that I'm 17, people _still_ treat me like that. It gets very annoying.  
Ooh, parties. Those are the things with two friends, popcorn, and a movie, right?... Heh. Yeah, I'm not much of a party person. I'm not much of a _studying_ person, either, but I love to learn, if that makes sense. I'm told I'm a very good writer at school, so that's my selling point to colleges, really. Thanks for the luck: I think I may need it!

Bumpkin: I gotta know: what's 'scrape potential'?

Thank you, everyone! Hope you review! crosses fingers


	5. Principal Bundycorn's Turkeyish Idiocy

Hello everyone! Glad to know you're liking it.

First, I'd like to thank someone I keep meaning to thank, but then I forget because it tends to be around 3:00 AM when I'm posting these. Not today! So…I'd like to thank Korinne for being my beta, because she's catching all sorts of horrible stuff I'm doing to my writing and fixing it for me!

LilyAyanami—I see you've found my devious foreshadowing! Well, actually not. Daniel's high school work didn't slip past _her_, the fact that she didn't notice it slipped past _me._ But don't worry: I've come up with a plausible explanation and will probably remember to put it in…

XinnLajign—I'm slightly confused. Are these compliments or insults? I guess I don't care either way, but I'd like to know which it is… ;)

And thanks to everyone who reviewed! I hope you do so again! And again! And again! (But no pressure.)

Lots of stuff I mentioned in Ch 4 will be coming out in chs 6 and 7, but I haven't written them yet. So…yes, I'll talk about the social studies project, and maybe teach those innocent kids some bad, bad words. And soon it'll be thanksgiving!

Speaking of thanksgiving, have a happy thanksgiving…belated, but still. And cranberry sauce really is _my_ favorite part of the holiday.

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**Ch. 5**

_Daniel_

As Jack walks out of the classroom, I take the opportunity to look around before it's time to start class, which is, according to my watch, in four minutes.

Mrs. Fern's classroom is big, and full of stuff that's enticing to children. There are blocks in one corner, and a table strewn with markers and crayons in another, and a lot of bare rug that everyone's using for different things: three girls are doing somersaults in the middle, and two are doing cartwheels that aren't exactly what I'd call Olympic quality. But they're decent, I suppose, for kids who are six. And to be honest, I've never been very good at cartwheels myself.

The blocks are mostly being used by the boys, but there's one girl using them too. Her hair is red and frizzy, and she's laughing. I'd say she's cute, but I'd feel like a pedophile.

Actually, all the kids in here are sickeningly cute. The worst part is that from the looks adults give me these days, I must be at least as cute as everyone here. I shudder thinking about it, and am happy to stop the thought when a bell rings at the front of the classroom.

I look to where the noise is coming from, and see one of those cow bell things still vibrating slightly in Mrs. Fern's hand. "Okay, everyone," she says, "it's time to start. Please take your seats." Obediently, all the kids get up from what they're doing—some scrambling to put away their markers and blocks, or to fold their drawings carefully before walking to the desks.

A tough-looking boy—well, tough for first grade—walks over to me, and says loudly, "You're in my seat."

"Mike," Mrs. Fern says forcefully, walking towards us. Mike and I look at her, and she continues, "What have I said about asking?"

"Oh," he says, sheepish. "Right." He turns to me. "That's the seat I always sit in. Can I sit there?"

"Okay," I reply, standing.

Mrs. Fern nudges Mike. "Why don't you introduce yourself," she says softly, and he nods.

"I'm Michael," he says, holding out his hand, "but you can call me Mike because the only person who calls me Michael is my grandmother and I really hate that."

I grin, and shake his hand. "I'm Daniel," I say.

"Okay," says Mrs. Fern, "Daniel, why don't you sit over there?" She points to a seat in the back, which happens to be next to the red-headed girl who was playing with blocks. "If you don't like sitting in the back, we can ask someone to trade with you later, okay?"

I shrug. "The back is fine," I say, and walk to where she's indicated. As I do, I realize that a lot of the kids are looking at me curiously, and wince. I remember this from when I was a kid—well, the last time I was a kid. When you're new, everyone stares at you, especially if you're joining in the middle of the year.

When I put my backpack down—a dinky little thing, because Jack says there can't possibly be much work in first grade—Mrs. Fern, who has followed me, says, "Okay, everyone ready?" Everyone lets out a chorus of yeses and yeahs, and one loud "No!"

Well, there's one in every bunch, I suppose.

Mrs. Fern says, "Good." She slips a small stack of papers onto my desk, and then puts her hands on my shoulders, saying, "This is Daniel. He's going to be in our class from now on. I know you'll all help to make him feel welcome."

A murmur rises up, but quickly dies down as Mrs. Fern strides purposely towards the front of the room.

"Does everyone have their Language Arts homework?" she asks, and there's a hasty shuffling as everyone retrieves crumpled pieces of paper from their backpacks.

I look down at the papers on my desk, and realize they're a packet of simple reading and spelling exercises. I glance over at the packet of the red-headed girl, and learn two things: we're on page four, and her name is Lindsay—or at least, that's what's written at the top of the page in large, shaky letters.

She notices I'm looking at her desk, and whispers, "Hey!" She covers the packet with her arms, and frowns fiercely at me. "No cheating!"

"Sorry," I whisper back. "I just wanted to know where we are."

"No talking!" Mrs. Fern calls fiercely, and we both turn back to our papers.

Oh, a spelling list. On the top is a happy-looking rabbit with a balloon bubble that reads, "Spelling is fun!" Below that, it says, "November Spelling List," and then lists several very easy words—gone, there, animal. We're in the third week of November, so I look at "Week 3" and see a bit of a theme—there's "turkey," "autumn," "family," "pilgrim," and (of course) "Thanksgiving," among others.

Spelling. My favorite.

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After going over the spelling words, a woman by name of Principal Bundycorn—I kid you not—comes in. She looks about ninety. As she enters, everyone says, "Hello, Principal Bundycorn."

Principal Bundycorn explains that this is a very _special_ week. "Do you know why that is, children?"

"I know!" the hordes cry.

Well, actually, that's not true. The hordes actually stare at her, resentful of her assumption that their brains have been misplaced. One boy at the front, however, mutters, "Thanksgiving."

"Very good. And what happens on Thanksgiving?"

"Cranberry sauce," I comment—actually to myself, but my voice carries. Oops. Cranberry sauce, incidentally, is my favorite part of Thanksgiving.

Principal Button-head says, "Yes. We have all sorts of yummy food, like cranberry sauce, and turkey, and corn. Does anyone know why we have all this yummy, yummy food?"

Silence.

"Because," she says slowly, like she's revealing some meaning-of-life stuff, "Thanksgiving is a time for _giving thanks_ for all the things you're privileged to have, like food, and family, and growing up in the greatest country in the world, America."

I snort softly. America, of course, isn't the greatest country in the world. It's the name used for either of two continents. The USA isn't even the greatest country in the world—it's better than some, of course, like…oh, Somalia, for instance. But many, many people would take offense—and often do—at the assumption which citizens of the US make all the time, that we are _better_. I myself like England best at the moment, because I've just finished King Lear—and any country that produced Shakespeare has gotta be good, according to my logic. Still, I've had many favorite countries in my time.

"What if you don't have a family?" I ask, thinking of another flaw in her logic. This particular flaw has been bothering me since I was eight. Or…since…yeah. Since 1973. When my parents died.

Miss Big-butt looks surprised. People in the greatest country in the world can be orphans? Who woulda thunk it?

"Oh, the foster kid," she murmurs, and I scowl. I am _not_ a foster kid, and I don't intend to become one. She continues, "Everyone has _something_ to be thankful for, Dennis. It's just a matter of looking for it. I bet you love your foster mother, hmm?"

"His name's Daniel," Mrs. Fern supplies helpfully.

"I don't have a foster mother," I add.

Miss Bundycorn says dismissively, "Well, I'm sure you have something to be thankful for. Anyway, to celebrate how thankful we are for—" she glares at me, and says, "_Family,_ and love, and…"

"Cranberry sauce," says Mrs. Fern, and I stifle a laugh. She winks at me.

"Yes," says the principal. "Anyway, Thursday and Friday you will have no school. Isn't that special, everyone?"

Silence.

Mrs. Bundycorn takes that as her cue to leave. "Thank you, class," she says, and smiles. I suppose she means it to look maternal and caring, but it comes out as a feral grin. I shudder, but she doesn't notice it: she's already out the door.

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Growing up, I didn't have great faith in Thanksgiving—my family didn't celebrate it, and then they died. Everyone pushes it on kids, in elementary school especially—so essentially they were telling me, "Here! Celebrate being with your dead family—oh, wait. Right. Well, celebrate how yummy this stuffing is."

And I don't even _like_ stuffing.

But boy, that cranberry sauce…

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The day passes quickly: Art class, in which we make—what else—turkeys out of handprints. Lunch is horrible—PBJ tends to squish a little too much for my liking over the course of the day. Recess involves swings, which are much more interesting when you're three feet tall than when you're six. In math we do some time-telling and something about crocodiles that I don't really understand, although I think it's about easy inequalities. And then Jack comes, promptly at 3:00, to pick me up.

"So, what'd you learn?" he asks, grinning down at me as we walk towards his car.

"Well," I reply thoughtfully, "I can now spell 'turkey' without even a second's hesitation. And I want a ham sandwich tomorrow."

Jack nods sagely as we get in the car. "Seems like your education has been a success," he says.

"Obviously," I return dryly.

We sit in silence for a while, me in my back booster seat and Jack, of course, at the wheel.

"Carter wants to come over for dinner," Jack says suddenly, as we pull into the garage some ten minutes later. "That okay?"

"Sure," I reply, unbuckling the seatbelt and hopping out—and happy there aren't any unexpected visitors present right now. "She can help me with my crocodile homework."

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So! How'd you like it? Comments, anyone? Criticism? Random anecdotes about...cranberry sauce that anyone wants to share? Please review! Please!

If you've already reviewed...then thank you! Why don't you re-review? That would be fabulous. Thank you.


	6. Crocodile

Hey, guys!... So, I'm finished with the next chapter. Obviously. I dunno what I'm going to do about this real time thing I've done by putting thanksgiving in there...probably I'll catch the story up as soon as I'm done with thanksgiving. So if we suddenly skip 15 or 20 days, that was intentional.

Uh...I'm writing from Sam's POV this time, so if you think I've screwed up horribly, please tell me. Not sure if I have her down as well as the other 2.

RE the politicizing thing (this is boring, just warning you): I'll try not to do it too often. And I do love the US, I really do. In 17 years I've been east and west and seen some amazing places, people, and cities, and for that I love it. Can't say I love the current administration--well, I'm not the only one, right? I respect republicans and democrats (and independents and the green party and flying monkeys and all the other parties) equally, and although I lean towards being liberal I decided a long time ago that I never want to be considered part of a certain party. What I _don't _respect--or have a hard time respecting--are stupid people, who assume and trust to God that everything will turn out all right. I'm not saying God doesn't exist--my vote's still out on that--but I bet if he (she, it, they) _does_ exist, he (she, it, they) isn't playing with us like we're a game of pretend. So that's the people I was trying to criticize. If you want to start picking favorite countries, I'd have to say US, because I live near NYC, and ya gotta love that city, and I've seen Utah and Wyoming and Jones Beach in the winter and all those beautiful desolate places, and I love them. But Scotland comes in a very, very close second.

Regarding Thanksgiving--that was completely Daniel's opinion. I _love_ Thanksgiving; it's my third favorite holiday (after Christmas and Halloween, of course.) But I know people tend to shove the idea of family down your throat at Thanksgiving, and I doubt very much that Daniel appreciated that when he was a kid. The cranberry sauce was my thing--if it's homemade, cranberry sauce is the best stuff ever. Use it like gravy; you can't go wrong.

Okay, tirade over!

XRachX- J&S ship is not something I really like to employ. If I were ever to do anything, I'd try to make it as inconspicuous and unfruitful as they do in the show. I think it's totally unrealistic for either to give up his (her) job for this tenuous relationship thing. So no worries :)

I am awed and humbled (wow, there's a cliche) by all the great reviews I'm getting! Thanks to everyone who's done so, and I hope you keep reading.

Please keep reviewing! It's very exciting. When I put a new chapter up, I check my mailbox around 20 time a day, in the hopes that I'll get a review. Pathetic, no? But true. I love you! Please review! (hee hee, poetry)

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Ch. 6

_Sam_

I always feel a little nervous when I show up at the Colonel's house. For one, he's my commanding officer. Not that he minds, of course—he's the most laid-back officer I've ever known. But people talk, and rumors have been circling for years about the interesting relationships the entirety of SG-1 has going on behind the back of the US military.

And then there's Daniel. I really don't know what to make of his shrinking thing. I mean, of course he's Daniel. But he's also a kid now. What if he's different?

The thought terrifies me. Daniel is my best friend. Of course, I have other friends—many, in fact, on base and off. But nobody has been able to communicate with me the way he does, to think as fast as I do, but with a completely different slant. He helps me to stop thinking emotionally when action is called for. But he also reminds me to think about how what we do affects the people around us, and to keep caring for them.

I've been avoiding him. I realized that today. I was looking at a manuscript that referred to piece of technology we'd found off-world, didn't know the language it was written in, and automatically thought, "Daniel will know it." But he wasn't at work, because he had to go to school—which must really gall him, I'm sure.

And I've realized that I've been worrying about _me_ with this semi-crisis, instead of him. And he's the one all this is happening to.

Never let it be said that Sam Carter turned her back on her friends.

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So I knock on the door, schematic in hand—it's as good an excuse as any, so I don't have to get mushy and actually say what I've been thinking. As I nervously shift from foot to foot, I hear voices, drifting out of a window that's right next to the front door.

"Daniel! Get that, please?" The Colonel, obviously.

A bored, childish voice replies, "What if it's an axe murderer or something? I could get killed horribly, and then Social Services would put you in jail."

"Okay," says Colonel O'Neill impatiently. "A, it's not an axe murderer, because if it were, it wouldn't be knocking on my door. B, I wouldn't go to jail if you got killed. I'd probably be flayed within an inch of my life by Teal'c first, and then given some horrible, slow, deadly poison by Frasier. C, Sam's already ten minutes late, so I'm betting it's her."

I can hear grumbling as small feet stomp towards the front door, and said door suddenly swings open—inwards, happily, as otherwise my nose would be broken. A three-foot-tall Daniel, looking up at me, smiles briefly. "Hey," he says. "C'mon in." He turns away, and I follow him into the kitchen.

The Colonel is stirring something on the stove, as Daniel sits down at the kitchen table in front of a few pieces of paper. "God, Daniel," says Colonel O'Neill, "if it's so difficult just show it to Sam. She's a math genius, right?"

"No!" Daniel replies quickly.

I frown. "Aren't you doing first grade work?"

He looks up, eyes narrowed. "Shut up," he mutters, and looks down at the paper again, chewing on his eraser.

"Daniel," the Colonel chides, turning the heat on the stove down. "C'mon, maybe she can help."

I watch the scene, smiling. It's good to know some things haven't changed.

"Look," Daniel says, "it's not that it's too hard for me. It's just too idiotic to make sense."

I shrug, letting myself into the conversation. "Well, I'll trade you. If you can help me figure out what this says, I'll try to solve your idiotic math problems."

Daniel looks up, frowns, and thinks, lips pursed. "Okay," he says finally, "but you better not make fun of me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I assure him. "What's up with this math?"

-----------------------------------------------

Forty minutes later, I put my head in my hands. "They cannot seriously expect little kids to do this," I moan.

Daniel, also dejected, sighs. "Well, I bet I won't be the only one who couldn't do it all."

"Guys—" the Colonel's voice calls from the other room. "Food's ready. Why don't you finish that later?"

"But we're so close!" Daniel whines, tapping the pencil on the paper.

There's a soft snort from behind me, and I turn and really see the Colonel for the first time. He's wearing oven mitts and a pink apron that says "Mom." I bite my lip, and the Colonel walks up and peers over Daniel's shoulder. "Close like that time with the 50-page manuscript and you had _almost_ figured the language out? And then it took you three weeks to translate after you figured out it was actually the language of the Alaskan trinkets?"

Daniel sighs and goes into mini-lecture mode. "Tlingits. And it was hardly three weeks. Besides, this isn't fifty pages of alien script; it's one page of a first-grade math assignment."

"With which you are having an inordinate amount of trouble," the Colonel retorts, snatching up the paper, folding it, and putting it in his pocket. "You can have it after dinner."

"Hey—" Daniel splutters. "But—Give that back!"

The Colonel turns to me in supplication. "Did I not slave over that which is now going cold on the table?" he asks. "I made my grandfather's secret gnocchi recipe, and you guys are so unenthusiastic that you want to do math homework instead of eat it! That sounds weird to me. Doesn't that sound weird to you?"

Daniel thinks about it, and reluctantly nods. Math is usually fun for me, but I agree that we aren't getting anywhere with this, so we all head into the dining room.

------------------------------------

After some truly excellent gnocchi, plus some ice cream I make a vow to buy the next time I shop, Jack pulls the math worksheet out of his pocket and studies it. "I could do this," he says.

I blink. "You could?"

"Yeah," he says. "Look. The instructions say, 'Cindy Crocodile is vey hungry. Help her eat the bigger numbers….then help Cindy solve a riddle her friend gave her…' God, these things are fuller of shit than I remember. Uh… 'To find the answer, cross out all the smaller numbers in the grid at the bottom, and cross out any numbers that are not even.' So you can go down right away and cross out all the odd numbers." He rises, and quickly returns with a pencil in his hand. "So you cross out all the odd numbers—" He does so, quickly and decisively. "The crocodile thing is a way to explain greater-than and less-than signs. So they want you to do all those. Then you cross out any numbers at the bottom that are the smaller of the two. So for the first one, you compare two to twenty, and since twenty is bigger and even you circle it or something, and cross out two. Easy." He lays the paper on the table, gets up and starts bussing plates to the sink.

"How did you do that?" Daniel asks, astonished.

"You speak German and Latin and Egyptian," Jack says from the kitchen, "I speak the native language of elementary school teachers."

Daniel picks up the paper and studies it. "This actually made sense," Daniel says to himself, puts it down, and quickly finishes the worksheet.

"What's the riddle?" I ask, as he writes the answer at the bottom with a flourish.

"Where is the ocean deepest? At the bottom." He frowns. "How…deep."

I wince at the pun, and change the subject before the Colonel decides to grace us with some of his puns. "Want to look at the manuscript?"  
"Yeah," Daniel says eagerly. I retrieve it, and he immediately starts studying it, muttering under his breath.

After about three minutes he sits back. "I can't translate this," he says.

Disappointment wells up in me. "You can't?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "No, I can't. But Joseph can."

I blink. "Joseph?"

"Yeah, he's a new linguist in the department. Knows nothing about archaeology, but he specializes in Asian languages which we haven't had much of because we were focusing on hiring people who knew middle-eastern and classical languages."

It clicks. "Dr. Breton?"

"Yeah," Daniel says.

I frown. "He didn't seem very nice when I met him," I complain, and Daniel shrugs.

"He's pretty brusque, but he's good at what he does. And he really enjoys doing it. He'll probably consider you a saint just for giving this to him."

"It's Asian?"

"Chinese," Daniel says. "I can recognize it, and know a couple words, but not enough to translate anything, even with a reference. Don't worry, Breton's good. He did a year abroad in China when he was in college, and since getting his doctorate he's been working in China."

I nod. "Okay, I'll—"

"Daniel," the colonel calls, "you should probably get ready for bed soon."

"Jack," Daniel complains, "I don't need a bedtime."

"I'm aware of that," the colonel says, "but last night you spent nearly an hour in the shower. If you do that tonight, you'll be going to bed at around 11:00. And if you do that, you'll only get seven hours of sleep, in which case you'll be grumpy, and I'll be surly, and we'll drive everyone away with our heartlessness and terrible sleeping habits, and when we die nobody will care."

Daniel blinks. "How does he come up with things like that?" he asks, but stands. "Was that helpful?" he asks, and I nod.

"Thanks," I say, and look around. "I guess I should go…"

"Yeah, I guess," Daniel says. "It is pretty late, considering tomorrow's a work day."

I shrug. "Yeah. Where'd the Colonel put my coat?"

Daniel retrieves it, and I put it on. I thank him again, and let myself out.

That wasn't bad, I think. Daniel is really Daniel. He's just…

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my coat together tightly. Thinking about the situation gives me a headache, but I'm reassured.

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Reviewing is good...swings a pocket watch You should review...Please, review...Please... I'll love you...I'll give you a virtual cookie.

Thanks!

-Emilie


	7. No Such Thing as Coincidences

Hey, everyone!

This is a long one. Like, really long. So long, in fact, that I considered splitting it into 2 chapters. But I didn't. So...Happy replies to reviews, and then story!

Terri--yes, kids have to go through that nowadays. Or, they did 10 years ago when I was that age.(Ten years already? Agh! I'm getting old!) To tell the truth, it helped me eventually, although not until the instructions had been deciphered--much grief with that.

Shannon K--(munches happily on cake...) Really, I didn't want to upset anyone...not with lectures, and not with cranberry sauce. But I stand by my cranberry beliefs!

Blaze--Thank you, for the six (SIX!) reviews! I love you!

kittn--Not _that _type of cookie! Hands over virtual choc chip cookie Enjoy... ;)

Wow, they like me...I'm being way too pitifully happy about this, aren't I? Somebody kick me. -Emilie :)

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Ch. 7

_Daniel_

Tuesday, Jack drops me off at the entrance to the school, and I make my way through the hallway by myself. It's a little earlier than it was yesterday, so kids are still roaming the halls. I look around: there's the office. And from the office, I go…

A kid who's at least ten, maybe twelve, pushes me. "Get out of the way, runt!" he yells. I stumble, and look back at him. He's staring at me.

"Really heroic," I mutter, "picking on a first-grader." I walk in the direction of my classroom—or try, since people are pushing past me. Not like the bully, though—these kids don't even realize I'm here, whereas he was being malicious.

Lindsay appears out of nowhere. "That was really brave," she says. "I woulda cried."

I shrug. "Wouldn't have done any good," I mutter.

She smiles. "I'm Lindsay," she offers, and I realize we haven't been formally introduced—that is, I know her name from a worksheet I peeked at, and she knows mine from our teacher.

"Daniel," I s-ay, returning the smile.

With this, Lindsay clearly considers us to be best buds, and grabs my hand. "Come on!" she yells. "It's faster if you push." With that, she starts weaving her way through the crowd, gripping my hand painfully so that I'm pulled along.

Finally, in the upstairs hallway, it's less crowded. Lindsay lets go of my hand. "Wanna play blocks?" she asks, and I shrug.

"Sure," I say. After all, she's not going to wait for an answer—she's already inside the classroom.

So we play with blocks for a while—or rather, I watch while she makes an elaborate design on the floor that looks something like a Celtic knot, then starts adding layers of blocks. By the time the cow bell rings, she's added five layers to the original.

The day starts much like Monday did. We take our seats after clearing up the blocks, and then Mrs. Fern starts talking about phonics.

Only ten minutes into the lesson, though, a middle-aged man opens the door and pokes his head in. "Jane," he asks, "can I have Daniel Jackson for twenty minutes or so?" I frown at the mention of my name, and look more closely at him.

"Certainly," says Mrs. Fern. "I'm afraid I forgot to tell him about it—Sorry, Daniel," she adds, looking at me. "Daniel, this is Dr. Kenneth. He's our school psychologist. He'd like to ask you some things in his office, okay?"

I nod. I'm aware that all the other kids are staring at me, and I blush as I get out of my seat.

"You won't need your backpack," the doctor says cheerfully. He's stepped into the classroom, and I can see that he's got a button-down shirt on, and a very colorful tie. I quickly walk towards him, eager to get out of sight of the curious eyes of my classmates.

We walk down the hallway. Every few steps I have to run a little to keep up with him. His office, however, is not too far away, and when we get there he opens the door and gestures me inside with a flourish. I look around. It's pretty clean, with a few chairs and a dark carpeted floor. The desk has reams of papers on it. "Take any seat you'd like," the doctor says, smiling. I sit down in an armchair—orange—that looks comfy, if aesthetically hideous. I look carefully at the fabric, and realize there are a few tiny purple bits in the weave.

"Okay," he says, sitting in a wheely chair at his desk, "you're Daniel Jackson, and I'm Dr. Kenneth. Any questions?"

I blink in speculation. "Why do child psychologists tell kids to call them by both their titles and their first names? Why the mix between formality and familiarity?"

He raises his eyebrows, presumably at the oh-so-large words I've been using. "Well," he says, "I suppose they think the title gives them some authority in the eyes of the kids. Some reason for them to listen, you know. And the use of first names makes them more approachable. Do you know what approachable means?"

I nod, and he smiles. "Okay. But Dr. Kenneth is my real title and my real last name. My first name is Alan." I nod again. It makes me feel better that he's not going to be patronizing me—or at least not trying to. The doctor continues, "You can call me anything you'd like. Most kids call me Dr. Kenneth, but you can call me Dr. Alan or just plain Alan. Okay?"

"Okay," I say.

"So…" He digs a yellow notepad out from the piles of papers on his desk. "Daniel Jackson. Do you know what we're going to do in here?"

I shrug. "You ask questions and I answer them?" I hazard.

He smiles. "Basically. Are you ready? Is there anything you'd like to know?" I shake my head impatiently, and he chuckles. "Okay, then. What's your birthdate?"

"July eighth," I reply automatically, "Nineteen—" Well, 1965 isn't going to work. I think. If I'm six, and it's 2005, I was 'born' in—"ninety-nine."

He nods, scribbling, not noticing the pause. "Do you know where you were born?"

Aboard an Asgard ship, actually. I'm a clone.

"Colorado Springs," I say. Close enough.

"Can you describe your family for me?"

I blink. Well, I don't really have one, except a whole bunch of people who aren't related to me. Some aren't even human.

"My dad's dead," I say. The original me. Actually, the original me is still in a coma, which I find creepy and therefore have not thought about much. "I live with an Air Force colonel named Jack O'Neill. He's the second in command on Cheyenne Mountain's deep space telemetry program."

Dr. Kenneth nods, still writing. "How about your mom?" he asks. "Do you know anything about her?"

I shrug: not really. Well, yeah, I mean, she was named Claire, and she died in 1973. But that's not exactly going to keep me from being considered a little loony, is it? "I never knew her," is all I say.

"And you knew your dad?" I nod. Sure, I knew…me. "What did he do for a living?"

"He was an archaeologist." _Is_ an archaeologist. And will be again when you guys decide my social skills are up to par.

Of course, Mackenzie's had doubts for years, so…

"So, now you're in foster care?" he asks, and I scowl. Not noticing, he continues. "No relatives to take care of you?"

"No relatives," I say sullenly, "but I'm not a foster child. Jack is—was a friend of m—my dad, so he's adopting me."

The psychologist looks at me and smiles. "That's good," he says softly, and I nod. Yeah, it is. When I was eight, and my parents died, I became determined that there wasn't a god. There couldn't be. Despite that, I prayed to every god I could think of each night for them to come back—and later, for someone to adopt me. In the end, everyone loved me but didn't want to keep me. I know I'm lucky there's someone who wants to keep me this time around.

Dr. Kenneth interrupts my thoughts. "So you're being home-schooled, right?" I nod. "What's your favorite subject?"

"History," I say, and he adds some more scribbles to his page.

"What do you like about it?"

I shrug. "Learning about different cultures, what they did—what they're doing now. How life could go if we were offered different choices."

This is actually my answer for why I like going off-world, but I realize it works pretty well here, too.

He nods. "How about your least favorite subject?"

"Math." Right away, I know the answer to that question. When I was in school the first time around, I rather liked math: it was simple, and there was always one right answer, and no mucking around with 'Well, if you just thought about it from this angle…' But last night has cemented my new hatred of math.

"Okay," he says. "What are some interesting things about you that you'd like me to know?"

"What is this, a college interview?" I mutter. I went with Cassie to some college interviews just before being shrunk, and they all go exactly like this these days. Aloud, I say, "I dunno. There's not much interesting about me."

"Aw, c'mon…there has to be something cool you know about. Can you juggle? Know more than one language?"

There's one! "I know a few languages," I offer, and he raises his eyebrows.

"How many?"

Oh, a few. "Um…six?" Is that a good amount to tell him? If I told him twenty-three, plus dead languages and languages that have never been spoken on Earth, he'd look at me a little oddly.

"Really?" He actually looks interested. "What languages?"

"Um…Spanish, French, Russian, German, Italian, Greek, Dutch…" That's six, right?

"That's seven."

Oh.

"Seven, then," I say dismissively.

"Plus English."

"No, you know, I don't really speak English all that well, you know?"

He chuckles. "That's amazing," he says. "Do you like languages?"

I shrug. I never really _thought_ about it, to tell the truth. I just…picked them up, like rocks.

The doctor checks his watch, and puts his pad down. "That's all for now," he says. "I'll want to meet with you in another week or so, though, okay?"

I nod: fair enough.

He walks me back to my classroom, where they're just finishing up phonics for the day. When I enter the classroom, all Mrs. Fern says is, "Welcome back, Daniel. Please take your seat."

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Right after Language Arts, we have P.E. Currently there's a unit on dodgeball, which you'd think as a geek and a wimp, I'd be bad at. However, I'm pretty quick, and usually managed, as a child, to hold my own. However, I haven't played dodgeball since I was twelve, so I confess to being a little nervous.

"Calm down," Lindsay says. "Dodgeball is fun." I shrug.

"What did Dr. Kenneth talk about?" Lindsay asks. "Did he talk about your mom and dad and stuff?"

I shrug again. "I guess," I say. "I don't actually have a mom or dad, so there wasn't much to talk about."

Her mouth becomes a big O. "You don't have a mom or dad? Who takes care of you?"

"I live with a guy named Jack," I explain. "He's the guy who dropped me off yesterday. He works for the Air Force, at Cheyenne Mountain."

"Really?" Lindsay's voice becomes excited. "My dad works at Cheyenne Mountain too. He's a linguinist and he speaks lots of languages."

Linguinist, eh? "What's his name? Maybe Jack knows him." Maybe he works for me, actually. That'd be odd…going to school with your underling's daughter.

"His name is Dr. Joseph Breton, and he's really really really smart." There's obvious pride in her voice.

Well, this is an interesting development. "I think Jack knows him," I say cautiously.

"Cool! Maybe you can come over to my house sometimes."

"Maybe," I say noncommittally. That'd be…weird, as much as I like Breton. And, as much as I'm coming to like his daughter.

Dodgeball is actually pretty fun. Lindsay and I try the entire time to get each other out, and manage to dodge each other for about half the game.

Around the middle of the game, I hear a ball bouncing behind me, and turn towards it, and trip—just as I hear Lindsay shouting, "Daniel!"

I feel something hit the back of my head, and then I'm suddenly lying on my belly, aware of pain across my right cheek. I hear a whistle, and lift myself up slightly.

"Daniel!" I hear Lindsay's voice again. "Are you okay?"

I'm slightly dazed, and blink. "I think so," I murmur, touching my cheekbone gently. It's very sore, and when I look at my fingertips I see blood.

"He hit the ground pretty hard," a voice above me says, and I realize I'm surrounded by people, both kids and adults. One of the adults, however, is in the process of shooing the kids away—"C'mon, he needs some room!"

One of the adults, the main gym teacher, kneels down next to me. "Stay where you are," he says. "You're going to be fine."

My head's clearing pretty fast now, and I realize that while I'm probably going to have a bruise, and maybe a butterfly bandage for a couple days, I'm otherwise okay.

"I'm okay," I tell him, and try to sit up—but he puts his hand on my chest and pushes me down.

"Just wait a minute, okay?" he says, looking at me worriedly. "The nurse will be here in a minute."

"I'm _fine,_" I mutter, but stay put.

The nurse does indeed come in a few minutes, and tsks at the gash on my cheek. "Has he talked at all?" she asks. She's looking straight at me, but obviously not talking to me.

"A little," answers the gym teacher, who's now looming over me, standing right behind the nurse.

"I can talk," I say defiantly, and she smiles.

"Okay," she says. "Can you tell me your name?"

Oh, she thinks I have a concussion. Well, I don't think I have one. They usually feel a lot worse than this. "Daniel Jackson," I say.

"And your birthday?"

"July eighth." What is it with people and my birthday today?

She nods. "Do you think you can walk?"

I consider it quickly, and nod. Yeah, I guess I can walk. As long as you don't mind me bleeding on the floor a little.

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She has me lie on one of the infirmary beds—very different from those in Janet's infirmary. These are more like cots, and the blankets have teddy bears on them, which are holding balloons. She puts an ice pack on my cheekbone, and instructs me not to take it off, and to tell her if the bleeding gets worse.

So I lie there, and she calls somebody—and asks for Daniel Jackson's mom, which I suppose doesn't get her very far. Eventually, though, she manages to get through to someone who's willing to listen to what's happened, and apparently someone decides they should come get me, because she hangs up and says, "You should be out of here soon, don't worry."

I shrug. "Can I have a bandage for my face?" I ask, and she smiles. "I'm not sure that would work," she says. "You might need stitches."

Stitches? Well…Maybe. But something to mop up this blood couldn't hurt, could it? It's still bleeding pretty heavily.

She takes pity on me and gets some gauze, wadding it up to hold up against the gash, but won't put it on until she uses some stingy stuff—alcohol, I presume—to clean the cut.

So I'm lying on this short little cot, with the school nurse puttering around, and glancing at me every once in a while. And then Jack comes in, right in front of this kid who's—I kid you not—actually looking a little green. The nurse takes one look at the green kid and he's gone—in the bed, vomitus basin at hand.

Jack looks at me as she gets the sick kid settled and calls his parents. "Just hafta go looking for trouble, don't you?" he asks, squatting by me—and wincing when his knees crack and groan.

I shrug. "I guess," I say. "It was dodgeball. 'Snot my fault."

"Yeah, well…" Jack carefully takes the ice pack off of the gauze, and the gauze off my face. He winces slightly at the mess, but says, smiling, "I think you'll live."

"Oh, thank goodness," I say dryly. "For a minute there I was really worried."

The nurse cuts our banter short. "Daniel, are you ready to go home?" I nod, and she looks at Jack. "He might need stitches, but I'm not sure," she says quietly. "You should take him to the emergency room just in case—or his regular doctor if she's available. Dr. Frasier, right?"

"Yeah," Jack says. "Will do."

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We're quickly at the base. I get some "Aww, idn't da widdle boy _so cute..._" reactions, and some "Aww…da poor widdle boy's hurt…" but Jack gives them stern glances and most desist.

When we get to the infirmary, where there are _real_ sized beds, thank you, Janet is talking with someone. Since my glasses were bent out of shape when I was playing dodgeball, I'm not _quite_ sure who it is.

He looks at me, however, and straightens up. "Doctor Jackson!" he exclaims. "What are you doing here? I thought they were making you attend some elementary school."

It's Dr. Breton, I see, as I approach. "Your daughter, actually," I say, smiling. "She's got a pretty good throwing arm."

The linguist looks horrified. "What's she done now?" he whispers sotto voce.

I snort. "Dodgeball," I say. "No big deal, I promise."

"Whatever you say, Dr. Jackson," he says mechanically, and turns to leave the infirmary.

"Remember to take the antibiotics!" Janet calls after him, then sighs. "He'll forget," she mutters to herself, then turns to me. "I heard you got yourself hurt again," she says tartly, and I shrug helplessly.

"It wasn't my fault," I protest, climbing—literally—onto the bed. Maybe those cots were okay after all. "I got hit with a rubber ball. And I tripped."

She smiles. "Well, okay," she says. "I guess I won't scream too much today."

Jack wipes his brow in mock relief. "Thank god," he says. "You know most of that yelling was going to be for my benefit."

"Because it was obviously your fault." I turn to him, rolling my eyes. "You weren't even there."

Janet grips my chin. "Hold still, please," she says, looking at the cut. She carefully wipes it clean with Betadine, and says, "I don't think this needs stitches. A couple butterfly bandages should do."

"Hah!" I yell.

She frowns at me. "But it's pretty borderline. If it starts bleeding again, I want you to come back and get me to look at it again, okay?"

I nod, and she gets the butterfly bandages.

---------------------------------------------------

Later that night, I'm working on my laptop when Jack calls up the stairs. "Daniel!" he says. "Phone!"

I sigh, push my chair back, and run down the stairs.

"Hello?"

"D-Daniel?" It's a girl's voice, and she's crying. "I-I'm sorry I hit you—I didn't mean to hurt you. Only they wouldn't l-let me come closer and then you left and I didn't know if you were okay and—"

"Whoa, whoa," I interrupt. "I know. It's okay, I don't blame you. And I'm okay."

"Really?" She sniffs.

"Yeah. I'll be back in school tomorrow, okay?"

She sobs. "My dad says I made him lose his job because his boss is mad you got hurt."

Uh, _what_? "Your dad isn't going to lose his job," I reassure her. "Tell him that from me—uh, from Jack, okay? Tell him it's definitely not his fault, and it's not your fault either. It was just an accident."

Another sniff. "Okay. Thanks, Daniel."

I smile. Now we're getting somewhere. "All right, I'll see you tomorrow." I hang up.

Jack looks at me. "What was that about?"

I sigh, annoyed. "That idiot Breton told his daughter that this—" I gesture to my cheek— "is gonna get him fired, and that it's all her fault."

Jack raises his eyebrows. "Wow," he says. "That's gotta be…"

"Like I said, he's an idiot."

"Maybe you _should_ fire him," Jack suggests.

I shrug. "He's good at what he does."

"I guess."

I smile suddenly. "What?" Jack asks.

"Just thinking what I'd do if you tried to pull the guilt thing on me like that…"

Jack frowns. "Okay, first of all, it's insulting that you'd think that of me."

I shrug. "Yeah, but _if…_"

"What?"

"I'd laugh."

"Yeah," Jack says gloomily. "I don't get any respect."

I laugh, and he shoots me a dirty look. "See what I mean?" he mutters. "No respect."

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If you review, I'll post faster. If you don't review, I'll cry. Which do you want?

(Just kidding. But please review.)


	8. Jack's Pinky Finger

Hello!

I've been informed that replying to individual reviews on here is evil and may not be tolerated by staff. So I'm not going to do that anymore, at least not in the stories. But hopefully, general messages like this are allowed: hurt/comfort equals yes? Or no? Does everyone want to see more Janet? Also, Is This a Bad Chapter? Because I don't like it as much as the others. And, it isn't _quite_ so Daniel-centric.

I'm planning on skipping over a few weeks, but instead of "Daniel went to sleep a couple days after thanksgiving. When he woke up it was December 20th" it'll be more like "the next few weeks were boring. Then..." Because a lot of people suggested that, and I do like democracy as much as the next dictator, right? So, yeah.

The chapter's now been beta'd. Thanks, Rinne!

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Ch. 8

_Jack_

I can't help wishing Daniel's with us when we go to P5X-440. The point of going is to take a look at a big pile of books the natives have, which would have Daniel in raptures. But he's busy celebrating Thanksgiving Eve with hand-puppet turkeys and reminders of how important it is to be thankful for things. He complained this morning that he'd be thankful when he didn't have to go to school anymore, and really, I have to agree. It's pointless, and it's driving both of us crazy, and it's only been three days. Hopefully Social Services will leave us alone after this, but you never know with those squirrelly social workers. They just keep coming.

So P5X-440 is peaceful and plains-ish, and the inhabitants—who call themselves the Moosans, far as I can tell—are smiley and eager to help us. But they act…weird, ya know? We come across weird people all the time, but usually I'm not the one who has to deal with them. When they get excited or happy, they bounce up and down, huge grins on their faces, like little kids do. It's creepy.

So we conclude our business with them around 2:00, and I'm thinking I'll have just enough time to deal with the Infirmary Vipers, get showered and changed, and pick Daniel up, when this boy runs into the little house we're in and says, "The rabters are coming!"

I automatically reach for my gun—after all, 'rabter' sounds a lot like 'raptor,' right? So I'm expecting some scary dinosaurs to come up. But the leader guy, Yamham, puts his hand on my arm. He's about to split his face open, his smile is so big. "This is good news indeed!" he says, already almost out the door. "We must hear what the rabters have to say."

I exchange a look with Carter. "Uh…" I get up quickly, and follow. "We sorta have to go soon. I'm sure we can set up a meeting later with the…raptors. Okay? But we—"

He cuts me off. "No, no no no, you do not understand. The rabters coming is a very good sign. It shows that you are welcome here. They honor you with their presence. If you leave it will be a grave insult."

We've reached a clearing, and Yamham has stopped. I look around, and don't see anything.

"I do not see anything," Teal'c states. Thanks, big guy. That was obviously a necessary statement.

"They will come," Yamham says excitedly. "Others heard them. They will come."

I shrug. "Okay," I sigh, giving into the inevitable. "But how long is this gonna take? Because I have to—"

"Perhaps twelve borlas," says the chief. "Not long."

I look to Carter for translation. "About an hour, sir," she says.

In a few minutes, the rabters come out. I don't notice anything at first, and am surprised when the villagers, who are all around us, start whooping and clapping like they're at a baseball game. But then I see some weird…things. "What are those?" I whisper to my team, disgusted. "They…eew."

"I believe we may safely assume they are rabters," Teal'c says. I roll my eyes.

"They look like a cross between a…a rabbit and a vulture," Sam says. I wrinkle my nose.

The rabters start to…sing. If you can call it that. It's more like croaking. The villagers join in.

_An hour of this,_ I think. _Good lord, save me._ I just hope somebody thinks to pick Daniel up from the school, or I'm screwed.

----------------------------------------------------

Eventually the rabters are done, and we've managed not to hold our hands over our ears and scream—which would be a deadly insult, I'm sure. Yamham, who is elated, accompanies us to the gate. "This is good news indeed," he says, over and over.

"I'm just gonna run up to the MALP and ready it," I say, when we get in sight of the stargate. I'm more than ready to go home. So I start running—

And then I trip.

I fall flat on my face, and break my fall with my hands—but I immediately feel pain in my left hand.

"Shit," I say from the ground, and carefully turn over. Three faces are looming over me, and I blink and bat them away. "Stop it," I mutter, sitting up carefully. I'm careful not to use my left hand.

"Colonel, what happened?" Carter asks. "Are you okay?"

I sigh. "Tripped," I say. "Must've stuck my foot in a hole. And I'm mostly okay. Let's go." I lever myself up with my right hand.

Carter puts her hand on my shoulder. "Sir, what's wrong?" She's frowning.

I gingerly raise my left hand. "Think I broke a finger," I admit. "The sooner we get back, however, the sooner it can get set and the less likely it'll become too difficult to move it. Can we go?"

Carter rolls her eyes, smiling slightly. "Fine," she says.

I look over at Yamham as we continue walking. He's frowning, and wringing his hands. On closer examination, I can see that he has tears in his eyes. "Hey, Yamham," I say, "This isn't your fault."

"I should have prayed to the bingoes more," he says worriedly. "They would not have dug holes so near the Watery Ring if we had asked them."

I roll my eyes, but Yamham doesn't notice. "I'm sure the bingoes didn't mean to hurt me," I say. "Really, it's okay." My finger's starting to really hurt now—the pinky—and it's swelling as well. I wonder idly, as we reach the DHD, how I'm gonna get my gloves off.

Carter quickly dials home and sends the GDO code, we get confirmation, and go. It's 3:30.

----------------------------------------------

"Colonel, you're late," is the first thing I hear when I emerge in the gateroom.

I shrug. "What can I say, General? The rabters just _had_ to give us a serenade. I couldn't say no to such lovable and melodious creatures."

He notices I'm cradling my hand. "Are you all right?" he asks gravely.

Carter, who's just come in behind me, says, "We think he has a broken finger, sir. He should go the infirmary."

I roll my eyes. "Thank you, mother," I mutter, and Carter looks at me, eyebrows raised.

"Does your injury not hurt, O'Neill?" Teal'c asks.

"Well, yeah," I say, "but it's not like I'm about to expire on the floor."

The general shakes his head at our banter. "Report to the infirmary," he says, and I nod, heading out the door.

In the infirmary, Dr. Frasier notices me right away, and sits me down on a bed. She frowns, giving my hand a cursory examination, and says, "What happened, Colonel?"

"Tripped," I say succinctly, and she sighs.

"Okay," she says. "Listen, I'll be back in a minute, okay? I've got something else that needs attending to." I shrug and nod. She starts to go, but I snag her sleeve. "Is Daniel here anywhere?" I ask. "Did someone pick him up?"

A horrified look comes over her face. "Oh, shit," she says.

All sorts of little crises have been going on in the SGC, it seems. First, there was a power outage, and nobody could dial in or out for a whole two hours—that was, apparently, right after we left. Then a second lieutenant comes into the infirmary, projectile vomiting all over people. Then—horror of horrors—Colonel Barnes discovers he doesn't have any pens to write his latest report. A bunch of alien bugs are discovered on base and eradicated. Then Siler knocks himself out by accidentally hitting himself with his jumbo-wrench while falling off an 8-foot ladder—that's got to be a record. And now, Colonel Jack Full O'Holes (yours truly) comes through with a broken finger. No surprise, seeing as he comes from "Hurting is fun" SG-1. It's a sad nickname for us, but true.

So when Janet finally gets to me, fifteen minutes later, it's a surprise when she's smiling. "Sam's gone to get Daniel," she says.

"Good." I'm still screwed, I know. Daniel's gonna rip me apart for letting him stay there longer than necessary.

"He should be here in twenty minutes." She reaches for some scissors and makes to cut off my cool fingerless gloves.

"Hey!" I jerk my hand away, and wince when it hurts. "These are expensive!"

She raises her eyebrows. "How do you expect to get your glove off?" she inquires. "Your finger is swollen."

I scowl. "You owe me a new pair of gloves," I mutter, and give her the hand back.

"Deal," she says, grinning. She's probably already bought a pair for Christmas or something.

I go to X-ray, which is very un-busy, compared to what it usually is. They quickly zap my hand, and I'm on my way back to my bed.

I wait a few minutes, and then Daniel comes. "Hey," he says, and I smile. Sam follows close behind him, and also gives me a brief smile.

"How does your finger feel?" she asks, and I shrug and grimace, then turn to Daniel.

"How was your day?" I ask.

He shrugs, and climbs onto the bed so he's sitting next to me. "Okay," he says. "It was mostly a big party. You know, with Thanksgiving and stuff. So there wasn't much to do." I nod sagely. "And then," he continues playfully, "my idiot of a _guardian_ forgot to pick me up."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault!" I protest. "There were the…flying rabbits!"

Daniel nods. "I heard," he said. "How's the finger?"

I look down at it and shrug. "I've had worse," I say.

He nods. "I know," he says. "You should be more careful."

I shake my head, and change the topic. "So how was daycare?"

Daniel grimaces. "The really little kids decided they liked me, and wiped their snot all over me. I bet half of them were diseased. It was disgusting."

Janet comes over, X-ray in hand. She gives Daniel a quick smile, and then turns to me. "It's a pretty simple fracture, sir," she says, holding it up to the light and pointing out the break. "We should be able to buddy it up to the finger next to it. Sound good?"

I nod.

"So, what were the natives like?" Daniel asks.

"They were high on something," I reply. "Don't know what yet."

Sam snorts.

"It's true!" I insist. "I swear. They were way too happy. People aren't like that normally."

"I'd like to go there," Daniel muses, and Carter laughs out loud.

"I don't know, Daniel," Janet butts in. "If the Colonel could get hurt that easily there, maybe it isn't such a good idea."

Daniel rolls his eyes. "He tripped," says the boy. He turns to me. "Did you bring anything back?" he asks. "Can I see it?"

"Yeah, we took some pictures," I say, "but I think we can wait a day or three to look at them. Don't you want to go home?"

"No," he says patiently, "I'd like to look at the pictures."

"Aw, c'mon, Daniel," I admonish. "Listen to your elders. We should go home."

Daniel scowls. "Just because I'm a kid now doesn't mean you're my _elder."_

I smile sweetly, and grab a scrap of paper and a pen off the cart, scribbling on it a 49 (my age) and a 38 (Daniel's former age). "Let's put your new math skills to use, shall we?" I hand him the paper. "Which is bigger?"

Daniel looks down at the paper, then crumples it up and drops it on the ground with a scathing look. I grin.

Daniel presses his lips together. "I'll be in my office when you're ready," he says quietly, hops off the bed, and leaves the infirmary.

My grin fades. "What'd I do?" I ask, and Carter gazes at me.

"Maybe you shouldn't tease him about the schoolwork, sir," she offers after a minute.

"Well—but—we always do that," I protest. "He never gets mad."

Carter gives me a doubtful look. "You were patronizing him, sir," she says. "Frankly, I'm not surprised he got mad."

I wince.

-------------------------------------------

With my pinky nicely buddied up to the next finger, I carefully knock on Daniel's office door.

"Come in," he calls dully, and I enter. He looks up and, seeing me, stands. "Ready to go?"

I clear my throat. "Actually, first I wanted to apologize."

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yeah," I say awkwardly. "Uh…it…didn't occur to me that you'd…find that uncomfortable. And Carter pointed that out. So…I'm sorry."

He blinks. "Okay," he says. "Let's go."

I frown. "That's it? No 'But-Jack-I-really-want-to-look-at-those-pictures-please-can't-we-stay-for-another-four-hours'?"

He shakes his head. "That wasn't the point."

It wasn't? "What was the point?"

He sighs, and looks up, as if asking for patience. "The _point,_" he explains, "is that you always use whatever you can to make yourself seem more powerful than other people. Even your friends."

I blink. "Oh," I say. That sounds reasonable.

"Okay," he says. "Now can we go?"

"Why are you suddenly in such a hurry to get out of here?" I ask, curious.

"Because I have the pictures in my bag," he says, smiling.

I shrug: works for me.

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I want _you_ to review my story! (Big piccie of Emilie pointing at you) :D


	9. Thanksgiving Revolt!

Yay, got it done!

Sorry it took so long...But just so you know, I'm going to have to work my butt off tonight doing homework I should really have done earlier! O, to live in California, where I'd have three more hours right now... ;)

(12/22 edit: Gah! Okay, so I make one mistake...sorry! I humbly beg everyone's forgiveness. I changed it to Sam onworld and Teal'c off, but forgot to change that part. Sorry for the confusion. Anyway, it's fixed now!)

Yes, anyway...enjoy!

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Ch. 9

_Daniel_

It's early afternoon, Thanksgiving day, and Jack is already slaving away in the kitchen. Everyone's coming tonight but Teal'c, who has to do some Jaffa Rebellion helping thing. And, of course, everyone's offered to help: Janet's bringing her world-famous real mashed potatoes, because Jack doesn't like to deal with the peeling and the flakes suck. Sam is bringing pies. I'm not sure if she made them himself or if she bought them, but she sounded very proud of herself when she talked about them over the phone. And Cassie has offered to come early and help Jack finish up with the cooking on this end. Jack, of course, is bearing the brunt of the meal: a 24 pound turkey, with homemade stuffing. Broccoli, sweet potatoes, salad. He's got gravy, and corn for Janet, who insists that corn was made for Thanksgiving, and a weird sort of strawberry-chocolate-tofu dish that Cassie taught us—it was cooked on her home world on holidays. None of us like it, but we humor her.

And, wonder of wonders, cranberry sauce. The universal elixir. It is my belief that if we just carried some cranberry sauce offworld, and made everyone taste it, nobody would try to hurt us or even be suspicious—they'd just be trying as hard as they could to get some more.

I offered to make the cranberry sauce, as a very precise recipe is called for to make it absolutely perfect (a bag of cranberries, seven eighths of a cup of sugar, and constant stirring to ensure all the cranberries are popped—or it's _ruined_) but Jack assures me he can do it himself. So I've been instructed to set the table—which I will do, despite Jack's fancy multi-fork silverware.

At the moment, however, I'm researching reasons why I shouldn't have to go to school.

----------------------------

Jack's dining room table is usually covered with Christmas decorations. He only uncovers the table for the holiday season, because it forces him to use all his decorations. And he's got a lot.

So as soon as dinner's done and the plates are in the dishwasher, everyone knows they're going to be enlisted for the decorating committee. But at the moment, we're just content to enjoy the admittedly cozy tradition that is Thanksgiving at Jack's house.

Because none of us are particularly religious, we don't say a prayer. But we do spend the first five minutes calling out what we're thankful for. Some of it's serious; some of it's not.

"I," Jack says first, as the host, "am thankful that there aren't any rabters on Earth." Sam winces, and Jack continues, "I'm also thankful for high definition TV, and hockey, and pencils. Which have erasers, which are very useful for writing reports about places I don't like."

Cassie goes next. "I'm thankful for my family." She says that one every year, and we all start to feel kinda teary whenever she says it. She continues, "I'm also thankful that I got good SAT and ACT scores, and that I'm almost done with college applications." Janet groans.

Sam says, "I'm thankful Daniel's alive." I blush, and duck my head. "I keep thinking we're going to lose you for good, and you keep beating the odds. And I'm glad."

"Aw, c'mon," Jack interrupts. "You're embarrassing him."

"I don't care," says Sam defiantly, and turns back to her 'thankfuls.' "I'm thankful for that, and for chocolate, and Midol." I blanch. Oh, it's _that_ time, is it? Remind me to stay on Sam's good side for a few days.

My turn. "I'm thankful for…history," I say, "and the Stargate." I frown, thinking. "And laptop computers, and cranberry sauce," I finish, and look to the last person—Janet—for her thankfuls.

"I'm thankful for the common application," Janet says, "and for the extraordinary luck of the people sitting at this table. Because otherwise you'd all be dead several times over."

"We _are_ dead several times over, Doc," Jack jokes, but he only gets a stern glance from her in reply.

She continues, "And I'm thankful Daniel Bovet came up with antihistamines."

With that, we're done, and we start to dish out food.

"Daniel Bovet, huh?" Jack smiles. "All those Daniels with allergies…"

I ignore him, and turn to Janet. "What's the common application?" I ask. I presume it's something to do with Cassie applying to college, but I've never heard of it until now.

Cassie answers, "It's a thing where a lot of the colleges have collaborated, so we only have to fill out one form, and then we can send it to a lot of places."

"It saves a lot of time," Janet adds.

The cranberry sauce is passed to me, and I heap a bunch on my plate.

"Jeez, Daniel," Jack says, "want a little turkey with your cranberries?"

I smile sweetly. "Yes, please," I reply, reaching for the turkey platter. It's too big, though, so Sam dishes out some for me—dark meat, my favorite. "Thanks, Sam," I say, and put some cranberry sauce on top of the meat.

Jack grimaces, and changes the subject. "So, Daniel, what were you doing on the computer this afternoon?"

I frown. "I was trying to see if I could take the GED, and get out of going to school. But they don't really want you to take it until you're eighteen, and even with the allowances for younger kids, you have to be at least sixteen."

Sam says, "Actually, I've been researching that too."

"The GED?" Jack and I ask at the same time.

"No," she says impatiently, "a way to get Daniel out of school. It's driving the linguistics department crazy that you're not there. They keep going to the infirmary and poking your…" She stops, flustered. We all know she's talking about my adult body, still in a coma. She continues, "It's really creepy. So I was looking at Colorado state laws about home schooling, and I found out that you only have to go to school if you're between the ages of seven and sixteen."

"_Seven_?" I ask delicately, and she nods.

I grin. "Jack, where'd you put that social worker's phone number?"

Jack frowns. "For god's sake, Daniel, wait until tomorrow. Give the poor woman a Thanksgiving free of an irate mini-Daniel, okay?"

I sigh. "Fine," I concede. "But she's going to hear from me bright and early tomorrow."

------------------------------------

And she does hear from me. At 08:30 (I can't bring myself to get up earlier than that on a day off) I ring Lillian Stevens up. I can tell she's not quite awake by her voice, and I smile in satisfaction.

"Hello?" she asks, groggy.

"Hi," I say cheerfully. "This is Daniel Jackson. Remember when you said if I have a problem, I can bother you any time?"

I can tell she's waking up: her voice is sharper. "What's wrong, honey?"

Honey. "Well, I've been studying Colorado laws regarding education, and I think you made a little mistake."

Now she sounds patronizing. "Maybe I'd better speak to your foster father, dear," she says.

"My _guardian_ is asleep," I stress. "And I'm perfectly capable of helping you to understand your mistakes."

I hear a muffled voice in the background, and then Lillian comes on again. "Sweetheart, I have to go, okay? How about if I visit you and Mr. Jack at…four o'clock?"

I sigh. I'm not going to get anywhere alone. "Fine," I say coolly, "1600 will be fine."

"_Four o'clock,"_ she stresses. "Make sure you tell him, okay?"

"Fine," I repeat, and hang up.

The social worker knocks on the front door promptly at four. Jack gets up to answer it, and I come along for the ride, hoping to see Jack kick her rhetorical ass. When he opens the door, Miss Stevens says, not looking at me, "I hear there's a problem?"

Jack frowns thoughtfully, and gestures her in. "Well, not as such," he says, leading her to the living room. We sit, and Jack continues, "It's just that we want to take Daniel out of school."

She blinks. "I don't think that would be a very good idea," she says.

I scowl. "Why not?" I ask.

Jack gives me a quick warning glance, and turns back to the social worker. "A friend has come up with this information," he says, and picks up some papers from the coffee table, handing them to her.

She reads them, and looks up. "I don't see what the problem is," she says.

Jack smiles. "Well, we've highlighted it," he says cheerfully. "See here? It says that kids don't have to do any schooling until they're seven. Daniel turns seven in a little more than seven months. And by the time Daniel's seven, he'll be my legally adopted son, and I can deal with his education in any way I choose. So I propose that we pull Daniel out of school."

Her face hardens. "I don't think you understand how important education is for young children," she says.

"Well," Jack says cheerfully, "I don't think you understand how much Daniel knows already."

"Daniel seems to have several emotional problems that should be dealt with," Miss Stevens insists. "I really think it would be best if he were to remain in school."

"Emotional problems?" I ask. "Like what?"

She glances at me. "It probably isn't appropriate to talk about it in front of him," she says quietly to Jack, and I frown.

"Why not?" I ask. "It's me you're talking about."

She looks exasperated, and I half expect her to send me to my room or something. But Jack says, "He has a right to know if something's wrong with him. Besides, I don't happen to agree."

Miss Stevens sighs. "Well," she says, "He seems to have developed a relationship with a…little girl."

"Sounds like that proves he's socially healthy," Jack says. "That's what you were concerned about before, right? So no worries."

"Yes," she continues, now talking in a low and rushed voice, "but often when little boys and girls make friends, they try to…_play doctor._"

Jack blinks. He glances at me, and then tries to suppress a sudden smile. "So, you think Daniel and this little girl are going into a closet together and looking at each other's crotches?"

She's shocked at the straightforward question. "Well…yes, I suppose that's one way of putting it."

Jack nods, and turns to me. "Daniel, did you do that?" he asks. He's pretending to be stern, but I can tell he'd rather be laughing his head off.

I wrinkle my nose. "No," I say. Eew. Think about it: looking at the private parts of your employee's daughter, who is more than thirty emotional and intellectual years younger than yourself.

Yeah. Yuck.

Jack continues. "Were you planning on doing anything like that?" he asks, and I shake my head.

He turns back to the social worker, triumphant. "Anything else?"

The social worker looks frustrated. "Well, I believe he lied to the psychologist who was interviewing him at school."

Well, obviously I lied. You kept asking me questions I couldn't answer.

"Really? What did he say?" Jack asks

"He said he speaks seven languages."

"Oh." Jack frowns. "Well, I'm afraid that _was_ a lie. I guess we'll have to rectify that now." He turns to me. "Daniel, how many languages do you speak?"

I grin. "Really?"

"Yeah," he says casually. "What the heck."

I shrug. "Okay," I say. "Twenty-three." Plus dead languages, plus non-earth languages.

Miss Stevens gapes at me for a second, then turns to Jack. "That can't possibly be right," she says. She's almost pleading.

Jack shrugs. "Sure it is," he explains. "Daniel Jackson—the elder Daniel Jackson, that is—was an accomplished linguist and anthropologist. His…son is merely following in his footsteps."

She shakes her head. "It's not possible," she persists. "He's only six years old."

"_Please_ may I zat her?" I ask in Abydonian, and Jack frowns.

"No," he replies in the same language. "It'd look very suspicious in the newspapers." He turns away from me and ushers Miss Stevens up and to the front door. "School starts again on Monday," Jack says to her. "Daniel won't be attending."

He shuts the door, and turns to me. "Well," he says, "glad that's over."

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I made cookies. Anyone who reviews gets a cookie. Only you only get to pretend.  
But I'll be happy, and that's all that matters.  
Because a happy writer is a prolific writer.  
Unless you're Hemingway. Gah. Review already! Please. :)

-Emilie


	10. Jack's Christmas

12/24-- This is a Christmas chapter--yes, I mananged to go from Thanksgiving to Christmas in a single paragraph! And I didn't even have to turn to black holes, torture, or sunspots that move people around in time (all of which I considered.) I feel very proud of myself. Don't you feel very proud of me too?

Because I wrote this all on Christmas Eve day, I didn't want to ask my beta (I love saying that) to look at it tonight. So at some point it'll happen, but it's not really beta'd yet. I did have my sister look at it, who gave it a thumbs-up but confessed she knows nothing about grammar. So if there are any typos or inconsistencies, forgive me my trespasses on the English language. And if you want, you can deliver me from the evil of typos by sending a review!

Hope you enjoy it! -Emilie :)

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Ch. 10

_Jack_

After Thanksgiving, you figure you've got plenty of time to shop for Christmas. So you don't mind when December comes up, because you've got almost a month, right? And you don't mind when it's the fifteenth, because you figure you've got about half a month. Because Christmas is at the end of December, and everyone knows that the 15th is the middle. But then suddenly it's the twentieth, and you can't deny that Christmas is very close.

So it is on the twenty-first of December that I find myself at the mall, looking for Christmas presents for Daniel, Teal'c, Carter, General Hammond, Cassie, and Doc.

The only people who have asked for presents are Cassie and Teal'c, so I do theirs first, going to Borders for Teal'c's present, and Radio Shack for Cassie's.

After paying for Cassie's present, I walk back to the entrance of Borders and stare at the faintly glowing sign hanging over the door. It would be so easy to get presents for everyone here: Doc could have one of those joke-books about doctors, and for Hammond I'd buy a golf book: golf is one of his secret pleasures, but he's also terrible at it. I'd get Carter a book on wormhole theory, even though when I did that four years ago, to her delight and everyone else's horror, she spent months picking apart, to everyone who'd listen—and many who wouldn't—everything the poor author said. And for Daniel, of course, I could buy anything in either the history or fiction sections, and he'd be a happy little clam.

Eventually, I figure I'm in enough trouble as it is without neglecting to buy presents because they're not _perfect._ I buy Carter the astrophysics book, Doc the joke book, and Hammond the golf book. But I've got another idea for Daniel Jackson.

------------------------------------------

So I give everyone their presents, with an admonishment to open them on Christmas and call me when they've finished. Daniel's present is wrapped and put under the tree. And suddenly it's the night of the twenty-fourth, and instead of sitting up and having a couple beers like we usually do, Daniel and I are in our beds promptly at 10:30.

When I wake up, it's morning. I look at my clock, and, seeing the time, sit up. 0730 on Christmas, and nobody's downstairs opening presents yet! I quickly pull on my sweatpants and jog to Daniel's room.

"Daniel, wake up!" I call, leaning over his bed. "It's Christmas!"

He blearily opens his eyes. "What—" he sees me, and closes them again. "Gimme couple more hours," he murmurs, and rolls over.

I'm not so easily dissuaded. "Daniel, c'mon! It's Christmas! You can't just lie in bed on Christmas!" Daniel moans and rubs his eyes, but he sits up. I smile. "Be downstairs in five minutes, or I'm coming back up, 'kay?"

"Fine," he mutters, obviously still half-asleep.

In the meantime, I figure, I'll look at all the presents, make sure they're arranged nicely. I head down the stairs, and into the living room, where the tree is—

And stop.

My mouth is probably hanging open. There are obviously more presents than I put there a few days ago—maybe even twenty more. They're practically glowing with the light from the tree, and as neatly arranged as my mother—a neat freak—could have wanted them. I walk to the tree and kneel, looking at the presents. They're wrapped with shiny paper, and wrapped well. When I wrap presents, I cover them with a lot of paper and use a lot of tape and hope for the best. But these are obviously wrapped with professional precision. The corners are practically sharp, and the bows are in pretty patterns; the folds on the backs and sides—I carefully lift away a present and look—are neatly folded and taped. The tags all say something different: all addressed to me, but some say "From Father Christmas" and some say "Buon Natale! La Befana." There are presents from Babouschka and Pere Noel and Juul Nisse. By the fireplace, my shoes, which are full of candy, sit, labeled "From Sinterklass."

I hear a noise behind me, and turn to see Daniel grinning sleepily at me.

So _that's_ why he's tired, I think, remembering long nights assembling bicycles and wrapping presents—badly, even then—when Charlie was alive. I frown at Daniel. "You didn't have to do this," I say, and he shrugs.

"It was fun," he says, flopping on the couch. He gestures to the presents. "Open them."

I pull one over, and gingerly pull the tape off the precisely manicured sides. Daniel rolls his eyes. "Open it!" he insists. "Just because they're well-wrapped doesn't mean you can't rip the paper."

I shrug, and start ripping.

Books, singing fish, and crayons. Near-professional artwork, and ball-point pens—"So you don't have an excuse for not doing reports," a note says. A lamp scarily similar to the one in that movie, "A Christmas Story." Seashells from P42-995, which are six inches across, and an ipod—"Which I do not condone using during meetings," Daniel says. A huge stack of stickers, and a Hawaiian shirt.

Finally, I can't find any more presents that are labeled "To Jack." There's still a decent pile for Daniel, although none are from Santa. I toss the squishy and unbreakable-feeling ones to him on the couch, and carry the rest over.

Daniel gets books from most people. I like books, but if that was all I got on Christmas, I'd feel like a kid feels when he only gets clothes. But Daniel seems happy at everything he gets, from Hammond's "How to Win Friends and Influence People"—which I know for a fact Daniel already has—to Carter's "Science in pre-Christian societies," which looks so Danielish I'm surprised when I look at the dedication and find he isn't mentioned. He gets about ten books, and then starts on my presents, which I know for a fact are more interesting than silly books.

I have three presents for Daniel. He starts with the joke one first: a kids' archaeology kit, complete with dig. It's essentially a lump of synthetic dirt, with plastic dinosaurs inside, but I figure Daniel will appreciate the idea.

He opens it, and then stares at it for a minute. I shift nervously. "Do you like it?" I ask, and he smiles. "It's interesting," is all he says, and then he puts it down.

Next, he opens the gourmet chocolates I had shipped in from Belgium, and then conveniently forgot about until yesterday, when they arrived. It's his favorite brand, Leonidas, and I know they'll be gone in a week.

And finally, a card. I insist he save it for last, so when we get to it, he's pretty curious. The card is nothing special: a picture of a pointsettia plant on the front, along with a cute puppy—you know, the ones you can buy in CVS for two dollars.

But on the inside is the message, which reads, "Merry Christmas! Good for one dog."

Daniel looks at me. "A dog," he states, and I nod.

"Yeah," I say, grinning.

He blinks. "A dog," he repeats, and I nod again.

"Yes," I say, a little uncertainly. "A dog."

Daniel grins suddenly. "You're crazy," he says.

I frown. "If you don't want a dog, we don't have to get one," I offer, and he shakes his head.

"No, we can get a dog," he says. "But think about it: who's going to take care of it when we're on missions? If the base goes on lock-down unexpectedly, what do we do then? Who's going to keep it company during the day?"

I shrug. "A neighbor can take care of it," I suggest, and Daniel shakes his head.

"It would need to be someone with clearance," Daniel says. "There _is_ some classified stuff in this house, you know."

I slump. "Fine, no dog for now," I agree. "But as soon as I can find the solution to those problems, we're getting a dog."

"Finally have an excuse, huh?" Daniel's smiling.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I insist.

We lapse into a comfortable silence, gazing at our loot. We're sitting right next to each other on the couch. "Christmas is nice, isn't it?" Daniel says, and I look down at him.

"Yeah, it is," I say.

We sit that way for a minute, and then I get up. "Breakfast," I comment, and get out the waffle mix.

------------------------  
The best Christmas present you could give me is a review! That would make me so happy, I might just do the happy dance!


	11. Lindsay's Chapter

Hello...I'm back...

Sorry it took so long :) I was on vacation, and then I had to do some school stuff, and then I got behind, and then I realized I didn't know what I wanted to write... and then it seemed like I was doing a paragraph a day, which is pathetic, and then I got it done last night and then the internet got so messed up I thought I'd have to call microsoft today shudder. But it's working today, and I'm posting! (Yay...)

Hope you like it!

-Emilie

* * *

Ch. 11

_Daniel_

We're in the middle of the monthly Anthropology department meeting, General Hammond in attendance, when the phone in General Hammond's office rings.

"Excuse me," he says, and slips off as quietly as he can.

In truth, we don't need him here, except to ask for more money to fund our projects, so we ignore his absence. "How'd the carbon dating turn out, on the skull?" I ask Mike Freer, continuing our meeting. Freer is in charge of a dig on P49-Y89, where he's found a lot of fossils, none of which seem to correspond to any living organisms on Earth—or any planets we've visited so far. The skull, from what I've seen in pictures, is huge—about four feet tall. And entirely unhuman.

Dr. Freer shakes his head. "Inconclusive," he replies. "There's not enough carbon left to measure. I'm planning to try Potassium-Argon next."

I frown: most of the things tested previously have been just young enough for accurate radiocarbon dating. If there's not enough carbon to measure, that means the organism's over 60,000 years old. But Potassium-Argon has a lower limit of 100,000 years in age, so that leaves a 40,000 year gap.

Ah, the plight of archaeologists.

"Okay," I allow. If that doesn't work, we'll have to try things that are more expensive, or less accurate, or both.

"Hey, look on the bright side," Dr. Jones quips. "Skull-guy's kids probably aren't still out there, hunting us."

I shrug. "We can only hope."

My department's adjusted well to my downsizing. I keep expecting someone to wonder aloud why a three-foot child is the head of the archaeology department, but so far I've been lucky—of course, it helps that weird things are a daily occurrence around here.

Okay, I think, one piece of business over with—for now, anyway. On to the next one. "Dr. Breton?" I ask, "How are you doing with the translations from P32-049?" I'm too low to see him well, so I sit on my legs, using my elbows to anchor me to the table.

P32-049 is a planet that used to be Yu's stomping grounds, a very long time ago. It's deserted now, but we're hoping to use the ruins to get an idea of the big picture—what Goa'ulds were around when he was there, what was happening, and so on.

"I've done a decent bit," Dr. Breton says, "but I haven't seen anything immediately useful to our situation here. When I finish, I'd like you to take a look, see if you can find anything I've missed."

"And you've got everything ready for the mission this afternoon?" He's taking a trip to the planet, to videotape a small portion that the military team discovered when they went back. It's not that big, but it might be important, so Breton's going for a few hours to look at it.

"Yes."

I nod, and look down at my list…Yes! I think, nothing else to do. Now I can go and get some coffee. I didn't have any at home, Jack's gotten wise and we don't have any beans—

"Dr. Breton?" Hammond calls, from his office. "It's your daughter on the phone."

Dr. Breton immediately stands, a worried expression on his face as he goes to the phone.

* * *

We disperse, allowing Joseph to talk to his daughter. I head to the commissary to get my coffee (finally), and then go to my office. When I get there, Breton's waiting, a worried look on his face.

"What's wrong?" I ask, looking up at him. He starts wringing his hands, which momentarily obscures my view of his face.

"Lindsay's sick," he frets. "And my wife's out of town with her mother, who's had hip surgery, and the babysitter we had last year is at college now, so I can't call her, and I don't know what to do."

I shrug. "Why don't you bring her here?" I ask.

He frowns down at me. "Is that…legal? I mean, we're not supposed to bring in people who aren't a part of the program."

I frown: I'm not really sure on that myself. But there's a sick little girl who I bet isn't having much fun on those silly infirmary beds at the school, and I know better to think that Joseph'd decide to take her home and spend the day with her there. He's too worried about his job—why, I don't know—to allow anything, even his family, to get in the way of doing it.

"Just…bring her here," I shrug. "I'll square it with Hammond."

He nods uncertainly. "Thanks," he says, and then turns to walk quickly towards the elevator.

I sigh, and take a sip of coffee. As soon as I'm done with it, I get to face General Hammond's wrath.

* * *

"So she'd just stay in the archaeology and linguistics area, not even go near level 28," I conclude. I'm sitting in what seems to me a ludicrously high chair across from Hammond's desk. Hammond himself is frowning dubiously.

"You'll take full responsibility?" he asks, and I nod. He continues severely, "Nobody can even talk about the Stargate in her hearing. And make sure she doesn't know where the artifacts you're working with really come from." I nod again.

Hammond sighs. "I'm going against protocol doing this, son. I hope you know that."

I nod yet again. "Yes, sir, I know. Thank you."

I'm dismissed with a wave of Hammond's large hand, and hop off the chair.

* * *

I'm back in my office, working, when Jack barges in, closing the door behind him.

"You're nuts, you know that?"

I look up, putting an innocent expression on my face. "Well, you knew that already, Jack."

Jack snorts. "Yeah, but it's comforting to remember how every day you renew my faith in how cracked you are."

I shrug, and look down at my work. "So what have I done today?"

"How about, convincing Hammond to let one of your little friends have a playdate in a top-secret facility?"

I shrug. "She's sick. You don't want her to be stuck with just Breton all day. He's…"

"Incompetent?"

I roll my eyes. "Inexperienced."

"His daughter's six years old, he should be used to her by now. And I notice you've changed the subject."

I ignore his second comment. "And we need to figure out what's going on with Yu, and he's on that mission today. He's the only one qualified to go."

Jack raises his eyebrows. "Well, you're going to have to either find someone to take care of her or do it yourself. 'Cause I'm not running a daycare here, 'specially not for sick kids."

I roll my eyes. "I'll take care of her."

Jack grins. "Good! Now when are we going home tonight?"

"Well, I dunno," I tell him. "Five, as usual?"

Jack frowns. "But it's Friday," he complains. "We should be allowed—"

A knock on the door interrupts Jack, who's leaning against it. He shifts his weight and opens the door a crack. "Yes?"

I sigh and get off my chair. "Open the door, Jack," I command, walking towards it.

Breton and his daughter are behind the door, her hand in his. He looks uncertain. "Dr. Jackson, are you sure about this?" he asks, and I wince. Explaining to Lindsay that I have a doctorate is going to be hard.

Thankfully, she doesn't seem to have noticed. I turn to her. "Lindsay, this is Jack," I explain, pointing at Jack. "He flies planes. Why don't you talk to him while I talk to your dad?"

Lindsay frowns, confused, but walks over to Jack, who shoots me a dirty look. "My mom used to be a stewardess," she says to Jack, and I turn to Breton.

"She doesn't look very sick," I comment, and Breton shrugs guiltily.

"They called and said she has a fever," he mutters. "She says she has a sore throat. And she did feel kind of warm."

I shrug: it's not for me to judge. "What do you want me to do with her?"

He frowns. "Um, I don't…I don't know. What…do sick kids do?"

I shrug. "No idea," I say dismissively. "I guess we'll figure it out."

"I guess you will," he replies dubiously.

I look at my watch, and realize Breton only has fifteen minutes to get ready for the trip to P32-049. "You better go," I urge.

He looks at his watch and starts to hurry out the door, but Lindsay sees him leaving and calls, "Daddy!"

He turns, and she runs up to him, hugging his legs. "I love you, Daddy," she murmurs, and he awkwardly kisses her.

"I love you too, Lindsay," he mutters, and then hurries away.

* * *

"You don't want to suck your thumb, you know," Jack says to Lindsay, who's leaning against him on the couch. "You'll get huge buck teeth, like a beaver."

Lindsay giggles a little, and speaks around her thumb. "It makth me mith my dad leth."

I shoot a quizzical look to Jack, who translates. "It makes her miss her dad less."

"Oh."

I'm taking one of my 'ten minute breaks,' and am sitting in my revolving chair—otherwise, Jack would confiscate it and use it to make himself too dizzy to walk. He has fun doing that, for some reason.

"Want me to get something you can hold onto," Jack asks, "so you don't suck your thumb?"

Lindsay looks uncertain. "I dunno," she says, pulling her thumb out of her mouth. "My dad says I should just stop, because it's babyish and people will tease me."

Jack shrugs. "There's that," he says judiciously, "and then there's the beaver thing. How about I dig up a teddy bear or something?"

Lindsay nods against Jack's arm, and he gets up. "I'll be right back," he assures her, and leaves.

"So how's school been since I left?" I ask, and she shrugs.

"It's okay," she says. "Mrs. Fern had a grandson, and she brought him in and he squeezed my finger. And then a fireman came in and talked about fires and we got to go on his firetruck, and when it was Hanukah, Ben taught us to play with dreidels and brought in potato pancakes. But he called them something else."

"Latkes," I supply.

She nods. "Those."

"Where's Jack gonna find a bear?" Lindsay asks, and I frown.

"I don't know."

We sit in silence for a minute, and Lindsay lies down on the couch.

A knock sounds at the door. I look toward it, and call, "Jack?"

"No," a voice calls, "it's me." Janet.

"C'mon in," I call, wondering why she's visiting.

The door opens to reveal Janet in her lab coat, carrying a bottle of pills. "Antihistamine," she explains, and walks over, handing them to me. "You forgot to get them."

"Oh," I say sheepishly. "Sorry."

Janet shakes her head. "It's fine," she says. Then she notices Lindsay, and gives me a questioning look. I open my mouth to introduce them, but Lindsay beats me to it. "I'm Lindsay," she says, sitting up.

Janet smiles. "Hi. I'm Janet."

"Dr. Breton's daughter," I explain, and Janet nods.

"Why aren't you in school today?" she asks Lindsay curiously.

"My throat was hurting a little bit," Lindsay says, "and they made me go to the nurse, and they said I have a fever." She frowns. "But I don't _feel_ sick."

"Well, sometimes you only get a little bit sick," Janet explains, "but when people catch it from you they can get much sicker than you do."

"Oh," says Lindsay. She thinks a moment. "Are you a doctor? Not a fake doctor, I mean, like my dad and Daniel's dad, but a real doctor. Like on TV."

Janet grins. "Yeah, I'm a real doctor," she says. She shoots me an amused look. "A medical doctor."

"A PhD is no less real than an MD," I say stiffly, but Janet ignores me.

"I've got to get back to the infirmary," she says, "we're restocking the supply cabinets today." She waves at Lindsay as she leaves. "It was nice to meet you, Lindsay."

"Nice to meet you too," Lindsay calls, and the door closes with a _click._

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Jack finally comes back. "Took me a while to find it," he announces as he opens the door.

By this time, I'm back at my desk working and Lindsay's asleep on the couch. I look at Jack and see that he's carrying a battered white teddy bear, strings hanging from his nose. The eyes aren't glassy anymore, and the ears are folded over—it's obvious this bear has been well-loved.

Jack's just realized that Lindsay's asleep. He walks softly to the couch and puts her arm around the bear. Lindsay squeezes it, and shifts a little, and Jack smiles.

I smile: Jack's never been able to resist a kid.

* * *

Around one o'clock, Lindsay wakes up. Jack's still in here, playing with a yo-yo I keep in a drawer so he won't play with the priceless vases and such. I'm working, so I don't notice when she wakes up, but Jack does. He's turning in a circle, doing that "around the world" trick I wince at every time I see it, but he notices she's awake and puts down the yo-yo.

"Hey," he says. I look at them, and see Jack squatting down beside the couch. I wince for his knees, but he doesn't seem to notice. "How are you feeling?"

She rubs her eyes and sits up. "Sleepy," she murmurs.

"Well," Jack says, "it's past time for lunch. You want any?"

She hesitates. "No peas," she demands.

Jack nods. "No peas," he agrees, and turns around. "Daniel, you wanna come with?"

"Yeah," I say. My stomach has been growling for the past hour.

At the commissary, Jack has some yummy meatloaf and blue jell-o. I get a salad, which Lindsay makes a _yuck_ face at, and the princess herself is given a hamburger and fries. The cook, a young lieutenant known as Smith, made a smily face out of the ketchup on the burger.

Lindsay sits in front of her food, stirring the ketchup with a French fry. "Aren't you hungry?" Jack asks, and she shrugs.

"Not really," she says quietly, continuing to stir her ketchup. Jack leans across the table and puts his hand on her forehead.

"Are you feeling all right?" he asks, but she just shrugs.

"I'm just not hungry," she says quietly, then adds, "My throat still hurts."

Jack frowns in thought, then suggests, "Would you like my jell-o?" She looks at it a moment, and shakes her head. "Would you like your own?" Jack asks, and she tilts her head.

"I like cherry," she says after a moment, and Jack smiles.

"One cherry jell-o, coming up," he says, getting up.

* * *

She doesn't eat much jell-o, either, but at least she has a little. After we leave the commissary, Jack steers us in the direction of the infirmary. Lindsay doesn't notice we're going a different way, but I do, and give Jack a questioning look. He looks at me and shrugs, as if to say, _it couldn't hurt._ And as he's right, I keep quiet.

We get to the infirmary and stop, and Lindsay looks around in confusion. "This isn't that office we were in earlier," she says.

"We thought since you weren't feeling well, we could take you to see Janet," Jack explains, "and then you wouldn't have to go to another doctor later." Lindsay looks uncertainly at Jack, but doesn't say anything.

Janet comes out of her office, and stops when she sees us, raising her eyebrows. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" she asks, automatically grabbing a pair of gloves and pulling them on.

"Lindsay has a sore throat," Jack explains, "so I just thought we'd make sure she didn't swallow a mouse or something."

We all frown at him, perplexed. "Um," Dr. Frasier asks tentatively, "a mouse?"

"Well, yeah!" Jack says boisterously. "If you swallow mice," he explains to Lindsay, "the hairs can get stuck in your throat and make it hurt. You have to suck on lots of lollipops to make the mouse hairs dissolve. Lollipops make mouse hairs dissolve, right, doc?" He turns to Janet for confirmation, who rolls her eyes.

"I didn't swallow any mice, Jack," Lindsay giggles.

Jack shrugs. "Well, mice are tricky. Sometimes they just climb down your throat. But don't worry, only really clean ones like to do that. The other ones just roll around in old banana peels and the smelly kinds of shoes people like me and your dad wear."

Lindsay wrinkles her nose. "Yuck," she says, still giggling.

Janet folds her arms, meaning (I'm sure) to look exasperated, but she can't hold back a smile. "Shall we?" she asks, and Jack picks Lindsay up and deposits her on the tall infirmary bed. Lindsay looks around from her new vantage point, swinging her legs.

Janet gets out her penlight, instructs Lindsay to say 'ah' and looks inside.

"No mouse hairs," she confirms, and Jack sighs.

"Thank god," he says loudly. "Those lollipops are much too strong to be giving to a little girl like you, Lindsay."

Lindsay gives Jack a reproachful look. Janet continues, "Looks like strep throat to me," and turns off the penlight. "I'll just do a rapid strep test and see how that turns out." She bustles away and starts rummaging in a cabinet.

"Jack," Lindsay whispers, poking him.

"What?" he whispers back.

"Does a rapid strep test hurt?"

"A little bit," Jack says, "but not as much as a lollipop would."

Lindsay frowns. "Lollipops don't hurt."

Jack smiles. "Well, there you go."

Lindsay looks to me for a translation of Jack's logic, but all I can do is shrug.

Janet turns back triumphant, swab in hand. "Here we go!" she says, and approaches Lindsay. "Now, all I have to do is take the tip of this and let it touch the back of your throat," she says soothingly. "It doesn't have to be there very long. You may feel like gagging, but that's normal. Are you ready?"

Lindsay looks at Jack, who gives her a thumbs up. She turns back to Janet and nods.

"Okay, then," Janet says. "Open up again for me?" Lindsay does so, and Janet's soon got her yucky procedure test over with. She turns around, and spotting a nurse, says, "Lieutenant, can you get this to the lab?" The lieutenant—Carol Bernat—nods politely and takes the swab thing. Janet turns back to Lindsay. "Now I just want to take your temperature, and then we're done for now, okay?"

"Nothing else in my mouth," Lindsay says stubbornly.

Janet nods, and picks an ear thermometer up off a cart. Once she's done taking Lindsay's temperature, she looks at the device and nods. "A fever, but not terribly high," she says. "Consistent with strep."

"Last time I had strep throat," Lindsay says, yawning, "I got a rash and a really high fever and Mom thought I was gonna die."

"That's really not very likely," Janet says cheerfully, "and this time doesn't seem to be that bad. Now, I need to get back to the inventory. I'll let you know the results of the test in half an hour, and get Lindsay a prescription if she needs it. Okay?"

"Okay," Jack says, picking Lindsay up and setting her on the floor. "We'll see ya soon, Doc."

* * *

It _is_ strep, and Janet turns up with a prescription in half an hour. Lindsay's asleep again, but we wake her up to take the medicine.

Joseph comes back two hours after that. I meet him in the gate room.

He's wearing his poncho, and shivering. "It was raining," he explains, shaking himself like a dog. I back away, but some water still gets on me. "How's Lindsay?" Breton asks, and I shrug.

"Sick," I say, and gesture towards the door. We start to walk down the hallway to the elevator. "Dr. Frasier said it was strep throat, and gave her some antibiotics. I'll give you the bottle."

He frowns. "She wasn't any trouble, was she?"

I smile. "No, she was fine. She slept, mostly."

He tilts his head. "I should take her home," he says thoughtfully, and I nod.

"Yes. You should." In the elevator now, I press my floor, 24, while he presses 26, the infirmary and locker rooms.

We chat until the elevator gets to his floor, and he gets out. A guy who's new to the program gets on at the same time, and looks strangely at me but doesn't comment.

I enter my office to see Lindsay sitting on Jack's lap, eyes half closed, thumb in mouth again. Jack looks at me as I close the door and puts his finger over his lips in a shushing gesture.

"Breton's back," I say quietly. He nods, but doesn't move, and I start gathering Lindsay's things up—her shoes, one of which has found its way under the sofa, and the other under my desk. Her socks, in a corner. Her sweater—it's kept pretty warm in the mountain. The sweater's draped over a chair, but underneath Jack's jacket—that takes a while to find.

When I've gathered up all the stuff, which takes about fifteen minutes, Joseph's knock comes at the door. "Come in," I call, and he opens the door carefully.

Jack smiles at Joseph, and pats Lindsay on the back, which wakes her up. "Your dad's here, sweetheart," Jack says, and I grin: I've never heard Jack call anyone "sweetheart."

Lindsay blearily blinks her eyes while she looks around. When she sees her dad, she reaches her arms to him, and Joseph awkwardly takes him into her arms.

"You might want to get her socks and shoes on," Jack says, grabbing them from me and handing them to Joseph. Dad awkwardly puts the socks and shoes on Lindsay—she isn't resisting, but she isn't helping either. Finally, he and Lindsay are ready to go. I hand Joseph the pill bottle, and he slips it in his pocket.

"Thank you," he says gratefully, then turns to Jack. "Both of you, uh, sir."

Jack smiles slightly. "She's a cute kid," he explains. "It was my pleasure." I nudge him, but he ignores me.

Joseph smiles awkwardly, and takes Lindsay.

I look up at Jack. "Not running a daycare, huh?"

Jack just smiles sheepishly, and shrugs.

* * *

Reviewing, reviewing, a magical thing! The more you do it, the more you...um... 

...sing?


	12. In Which a Dog is Bought

Hah! It's done! But I have an excuse for...well...it not being up on Wednesday, anyway. Before that is my fault. It wouldn't let me upload! And I was really sad! But then it worked at school (which is where I'm writing this) so it's all good. Thechapter is, I believe, less than half the length of the one before, but I'm working on the next one...And the one after that. I _might_ have a Valentines day one, but, um, if I do it'll probably be something lame like Jack and Daniel professing their platonic love to each other. But, um, very very platonic. Because non-platonic would be..yeah. (Speaks to self: _Stop rambling!_)

I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

Ch. 12 

_Jack_

"She was cute, wasn't she?" I ask.

"Mmhmm," Daniel responds, staring out the car window.

"We should babysit her sometime," I suggest. "It'd be fun."

Daniel snorts. "Sure, give the dangerous special-ops guy and his six-year-old midget genius a kid. What could go wrong?"

I frown. "Pessimist," I mutter, turning into the driveway.

As soon as we get inside, we start our new dinner-preparing ritual: I get out the ingredients, Daniel gets all the pots and stirring stuff. Then Daniel sets the table while I cook—tonight, it's frozen chicken cordon bleu. Daniel is actually a pretty good cook—although he sucks at MREs—but Janet has expressly forbidden him to use the oven or stove.

Chicken cordon bleu is Daniel's thing—I've never had it before. I open the microwave, thinking it'll be easier to do it there than in the oven, but Daniel notices and stops me.

"Don't use the microwave," he explains, "you'd have to turn the things over every three minutes or so. It's easier in the oven, and it comes out better too."

I shrug. "Okay." I close the microwave door and open the oven.

Half an hour later, we're eating. "This is pretty good," I say, chewing while I talk.

Daniel smiles. "I'm glad you like it. Don't talk with your mouth full."

"Hey!" I exclaim indignantly. "My house, my rules."

Daniel shrugs. "If you say so," he says, "but it's disgusting."

I roll my eyes, but chew in silence.

Five minutes later, I open my mouth again. "Why don't we get our dog this weekend?" I ask.

Daniel gazes sternly at me. "Have you found anyone to take care of it when we're gone?" he asks, and I nod.

"There's an old air force major down the road," I explain. "Not a career soldier, but I knew him pretty well. He retired last year, and he's been looking for something to do." I shudder. "He used to be an accountant. But he has security clearance, so it's fine."

"You talked to him?" At my nod, Daniel says, sighing, "Fine. Where are we going to get the dog?"

* * *

I want to go to the animal shelter on Saturday morning, but when Daniel reminds me how little we have in the way of dog commodities, such as food and leashes, I agree that we should get that stuff first. So, bright and early Saturday morning (which doesn't endear me to Daniel much, but what the heck) we find ourselves in Petsmart. 

"Jack," Daniel complains, "you do not need forty different flavored treats. And a spiked collar is really silly."

I shrug. "Maybe we'll get two dogs, so we can use up the treats." I skip around the topic of the spiked collar, but Daniel takes it out of the cart and puts it on an empty shelf. "_One_ dog," he says. "We're going to have enough trouble with one."

"But it'll need company," I point out reasonably.

Daniel snorts sarcastically, but doesn't comment. I'm not sure if I've won or lost, so I just shrug and pick up a jumbo-dog-toys pack.

"What _size_ dog are we getting?" Daniel asks suddenly, looking at me.

I frown: Well, I don't know. I just thought we'd pick the one we liked most. "Uh, a really big one?"

Daniel purses his lips. "No," he says, frowning.

"No?"

"No," he repeats. "I obviously get to choose, since it's my present, and I want one that's small—a Chihuahua, maybe."

I wince. "Those are…really yippy, Daniel."

Daniel looks quizzically at me. "'Yippy?'"

"_Yes,_" I repeat, "yippy. They bark a lot, and when they do they sound like they're on helium."

Daniel rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says, "but we're not getting a…Rottweiler, or a Great Dane or anything."

"A lab or something?" I ask pleadingly.

"What makes you think we're going to find a purebred dog at a pound, anyway?" Daniel asks. "We probably won't be that lucky."

I shrug. "A lab mix?" I suggest, grinning, and he shakes his head.

"I had a girlfriend once who had a Scottie," he offers. "She was cute."

"Which one," I ask, "the girlfriend or the dog?"

Daniel grins, but doesn't look at me. "Both," he says smugly, then looks at the cart. "I think we have everything we need," he comments, looking up at me. I shrug, nod, and head towards the checkout.

The checkout lady is named Tina, and—if I were to venture a guess—is no more than eighteen years old. "Are you guys getting a new dog?" she asks cheerfully, and Daniel nods.

"Jack wanted one," he says, grinning at me, and I shrug ruefully.

"I know where you're coming from," says Tina. "When I was ten, my dad got me a dog, and when I have a ten-year-old kid, he's getting a dog, too, whether he wants one or not." She grins. "Family tradition, you see."

"Exactly," I say, satisfied. "See? It's a tradition."

Daniel smiles, but says nothing.

* * *

"So we're going with a Scottie-type dog, then?" Daniel asks as I drive to the pound. 

I wrinkle my nose. "Scotties are so…_black,_" I protest.

I can't see his expression, since my eyes are on the road. But, I think, he's probably doing that pursed-lips-and-raised-eyebrows thing. "Um, racist much?" he asks, and I shake my head.

"Not like _that_." I roll my eyes—although since he's in the back seat, he can't see my expression either. "Just, black dogs can get really dirty, and you can't tell unless they're caked with mud. And like you said, the dogs at the pound will probably be mostly mutts."

"You know," Daniel mutters, "most people get dark colors so they _won't_ see the dirt…"

"You can wash a dog much more easily than a rug or a couch," I assert confidently. Daniel says nothing—which probably means he doesn't agree. Oh, well—it's tough to be so brilliant in dog-buying matters, you know. The entire world turns against you.

* * *

And at the sheleter, there is, amazingly, a dog that's like a Scottie but with white fur. "It's a Westie," Daniel says, and insists that it's his dog, and we don't need to look anymore, and we should go home. 

I shrug: it is kind of cute. The guy at the shelter says it's a boy, about two years old. "You guys are pretty lucky," he says. "That's a purebred Westie, as far as we can tell. No idea why it's in here, but…" he shrugs. "I'm glad it's getting a good home."

The Westie is wiggling and squirming in Daniel's arms, and licking his face. Daniel looks up at me, an irrepressible grin on his face. "I take it you like the dog?" I ask, and he nods and quickly turns his attention to the dog, which starts sniffing under his armpit.

I finish up the paperwork and so on for the dog and we leave, the dog still in Daniel's arms. "Don't let him climb to the front seat," I caution, as we get into the car.

"I know," he says absently, stroking the dog's head.

We're almost home when I ask, "What are we going to name him?"

"I don't know," Daniel says. "What do people name dogs?"

"Rover," I suggest. "Or Fred, or Snoopy… There are lots of names."

"Anubis," he says, as I'm looking over my shoulder to change lanes, and I catch an evil grin.

"_No,_" I say firmly. "Whatever possessed you to say that?"

"Anubis had the head of a dog—in mythology, anyway," Daniel says. "I guess in real life it's a little different."

"Well, how about Sirius?" I ask: I do know _some_ mythology, especially if it has to do with the stars.

"The dog star?"

"Yeah," I urge. "C'mon, it's perfect. It's doggy, it's mythological…"

"Sirius," Daniel says under his breath, as we pull into the driveway. "It's…"

"A good name," I prompt.

Daniel smiles. "A good name," he agrees.

When we get inside, I test the dog's new name. "Sirius," I call as soon as the new dog is on the ground, "come here, boy!"

Sirius looks at me for a moment, then walks purposely away from me, sniffing curiously at chairs and rugs the entire way—it reminds me of Daniel on a mission, before his shrinkage.

I grin, and say to Daniel, "Takes after you, I see."

* * *

Okay, RE the Sirius thing...It is _not_ meant to have anything with Harry Potter. When my sister read it, she said, "This isn't going to be a crossover or anything, is it?" No, it's not. I like Harry Potter, but it's not the type of thing I want to write fanfiction for. In case anyone doesn't know, J.K. Rowling routinely uses historical and mythological names for...well, everything. I assume Sirius (the character in Harry Potter) is named Sirius because he can turn into the dog (that would be the logical explanation.) Sirius is Daniel's dog name because Daniel likes mythology, and because Jack likes stars. That's it. 

Westies are at least a million times cuter than the one described here...he would probably be arfing quietly too, and licking you, and looking up at you with big black eyes and a wet nose,and looking completely pitiful. But this description will do for now.

...That was long. Please review! Reviews encourage me to fix my computer so I can post another chapter without going through these stupid school computers...with their slowness...and really loud sticky keyboards... And, um, a longer wait. So review!


	13. Sick Day

Random disclaimer: I don't own Tylenol. Well, actually I do; it's in my medicine cabinet. But, you know, I don't own the company.

To make up for it being so long since I posted, this one is extra-long. In fact, it's so long it was starting to scare me, and I wondered if I should cut out the nurse scene, which was (in my opinion) the most boring. But I didn't.

Enjoy:)

* * *

Ch. 13 

_Jack_

It's morning, 0600. A little bit of snow fell last night—not enough to be dangerous on the road, but certainly enough to look pretty. Light is streaming through the window, and all is right with the world. It promises to be a beautiful winter day.

The alarm clock goes off suddenly, and I groan: I hate Mondays.

I get up anyway and splash some cold water on my face, which serves to make me a little more alert. Then I walk down the hallway to Daniel's room.

He's completely under the blankets, as usual. Our new dog, Sirius, is sitting on the bed near Daniel's feet, and pants happily at me. "Daniel," I say loudly, shaking the lump, "time to get up."

Daniel groans, and pulls the blankets off his head, turning to face me. "I hate Mondays," he murmurs, blinking sleepily.

"Don't we all," I mutter, then add, "You have half an hour." I scratch the dog's ears before leaving the room.

Daniel has mostly given up his former habit of only having coffee for breakfast, thanks to a stern lecture from Dr. Frasier, but today he seems to have reverted. "Not hungry," he explains, when I look questioningly at his very full coffee mug.

I shrug. "Well, if Doc finds out, you get to explain it."

Driving to work, I ask him, "Why are you so tired this morning?"

"Reading last night," he replies succinctly, and I nod: it figures, with him.

When we get to the entrance to the mountain, I spot a problem: apparently there's been a lockdown. A perimeter is set up, as are tents, and a Captain I vaguely recognize from SG-9 is speaking on a radio—to whom, I don't know. I roll my window down, despite the cold, and beckon him over. "What's going on?" I ask.

"We have reason to believe there may be…an enemy on the base, sir," he says smartly. "One of the men returning from a mission on a…in a hostile place, that is, failed to show up for his post-mission check-up. We're concerned there may be more."

Since there's nobody around who doesn't have security clearance, it doesn't matter if he talks about the Goa'uld, but I suppose he's just being cautious. I automatically translate it from the 'this is classified subject matter' lingo: They think there's a Goa'uld, because on a Goa'uld infested planet, a team ran across some snakeheads and now one of the guys has taken a little trip out of the mountain without permission. I sigh. "Do we know who's AWOL, Captain?"

"It's…" He looks down at a clipboard he's holding. "Dr. Felger, sir."

I roll my eyes. He's probably at home, talking to his plants about his day, I think. But a security risk is a security risk, I guess. "Is there any way to contact General Hammond?" I ask, and am rewarded with a nod.

"Yes sir, by phone. Any secure line will do. The general tried to contact you earlier, sir, but he couldn't reach you."

"Damn," I murmur, and dig my cell phone out of my pocket. It's off.

I turn on my phone, wait for it to play the little song that says "Hooray, I'm on!" in cell phone language, punch one on speed dial, and immediately reach Hammond. "Colonel O'Neill," he says at once.

"Hiya, General," I reply into the phone. "I hear you've got yourself a little scientist problem."

"Jack, please appreciate the seriousness of the situation. Are you up to date?"

I sigh. "Yeah. What are we doing to make sure there's no Goa'ulds?"

"Standard MRIs, that's all we can do."

"Well, what do you want me to do at this end, Sir?" I ask.

"We already have people out looking for Dr. Felger. I'd appreciate if you looked over the perimeter up there, make sure it's safe. If this is a Goa'uld, it's not getting out of the mountain alive, understand?"

"Yes sir," I say, and the line goes dead.

"Jack, what's going on?" Daniel asks, and I realize he's been asleep since we pulled up.

"Possible Goa'uld on Earth," I reply. "I'm gonna walk around, check out the perimeter. They've probably got some donuts, if you want any." I turn to look at him.

He shakes his head. "Coffee," he says, and gets out of the car. I do the same.

The captain is looking at me expectantly. "What is it you'd like me to do, Sir?" he asks—nearly the same question I asked Hammond just a minute ago.

"You're in charge of the perimeter?" I ask, and he nods. "Ok," I continue. "General Hammond asked me to check it out. Can we look over what you're doing?"

He nods again. "Of course, Colonel. This way." He walks with me to the larger of two tents, and Daniel follows us.

I look over the plans for the perimeter: they're good, but I see a few things that can be improved. I point them out and he immediately orders his men to implement the changes.

I love it when men are competent and follow orders: it gives me less to do. Thanks to this captain, I'm free. I call Hammond to make sure he doesn't have anything else for me to do, but all he says is, "There's not much to do from that end. Just go on home, but be prepared for my call." Translation: Don't turn your cell phone off again.

"Alright, sir. Good luck down there."

_Boy, Felger,_ I think, _you've really done it this time. _I turn to Daniel, who's sitting in a chair by the wall of the tent. He's fallen asleep again, and I frown: Daniel never sleeps this much. But he is a kid now, and—well, maybe he's getting a growth spurt or something, and needs the extra energy. I shake him awake, and he blushes in embarrassment at having dozed off again.

"Sorry," he mutters, and I shrug.

"No big deal," I say. "C'mon, we're going home."

He frowns. "Don't you have stuff to do here?"

"All done. C'mon!" I steer him towards the door—or rather, tent flap.

* * *

As soon as we get into the house, Daniel walks straight to the couch and lies down on it. I grimace: I'm getting a bad feeling about Daniel's state of health. I walk over to the couch, kneel, and poke him lightly in the arm.

He opens his eyes. "What?" he asks quietly.

I smile tightly. "I think you're sick."

"Me too." He closes his eyes again, and swallows. "My throat hurts," he whispers.

I chew my lip, thinking: what does one do with a sick kid? With Charlie, my job was to get cough syrup from the store, and read to him when he wanted it, and, you know, clean up after his vomit and stuff. "I'm going to try to scrounge up a thermometer," I tell Daniel. He doesn't reply.

I eventually find an old glass one, the kind with alcohol instead of mercury, stuck in the back of the cabinet in the bathroom, and bring it back to Daniel. "Found it," I say. "Sit up for me, okay?"

Daniel, looking miserable, props himself up with his hands while I try to figure out how to work the thermometer. The liquid is too high in the little tube, and I try to move it by holding it upside-down, but it doesn't work. "Flick it," Daniel says hoarsely, and when I look at him blankly, takes the thermometer from me and 'flicks' it—holds it at one end and gives it a few hard shakes. I take it back from him, and sure enough, the liquid's at 94 degrees Fahrenheit.

"Okay. Two minutes, right?" I ask somewhat rhetorically, vaguely remembering these things from my childhood.

"Three," Daniel corrects quietly.

I shrug. "Okay, three. Here." I sort of guide the thermometer to his mouth, but he grabs it before it gets there and holds it there himself. I look at my watch.

I time it: one minute…two…three minutes. "Okay," I say, and gently take the thermometer from him. He quickly lies down again, while I read the little lines. It takes me a minute to work it out, but soon I have it. "102," I read, "point…something. Can't read it. Anyway, around 102." I frown at Daniel. "That's high, right?"

He shrugs, eyes closed.

"We should have a plan for this sort of thing," I mutter, and look around as if that could help me.

If the base wasn't on lockdown, I could take him to the infirmary, but obviously that wasn't an option… Thank you, Dr. Felger. "I'm gonna kill him," I mutter.

"Sorry," Daniel whispers, apparently believing it's him I'm going to kill.

"Not you," I say absentmindedly, reaching in my pocket for my cell phone again. The only thing to do, I guess, is call Dr. Frasier and ask her what to do. I punch four—speed dial again—and put the phone to my ear as it starts ringing.

"Dr. Frasier speaking."

"Hey, Doc, it's me."

"Colonel?" Frasier's voice is confused. "What's going on?"

I wrinkle my nose. "Daniel's sick," I sigh.

A pause. "Sick?"

"Yeah, sick." Another pause. I continue, "As in, he was about to about to fall over, he has a fever, sore throat, can't keep his eyes open. Sick. You know. I'm sure you've seen stuff like it before."

The doctor's sigh is loud over the phone. "Sorry, sir. I've been up all night, on call. He probably has strep throat, like that little girl."

"His fever's pretty high," I tell her. "102."

"That's not high enough to be a real cause for concern," Doc says. "Kids run higher fevers than adults."

"Okay," I say. "So what do I do?"

Another loud sigh. "If he has strep, he needs antibiotics. But I don't have a way to give you a prescription, or even to call it in to a pharmacy. I'm sure somebody must have told you about Dr. Felger…"

"Yes, and you can't connect to an unsecure line, because of the lockdown. I know. But what do I _do?_"

"Take him to a pediatrician, I guess," Doc says tiredly.

I wince. "Do I have to?" I ask pathetically. I guess I thought I could just go to the pharmacy, show them Daniel, and say, 'See? He's _really sick!_' But I guess it's not that easy. My memories of pediatricians' offices are…well…more like nightmares than anything else. Screaming children, long waits, and a disapproving doctor, who glares at the parents like it's all Mom and Dad's fault the kid's sick. "Couldn't I just…let him get better on his own? It won't take that long, right?"

"If it's strep it should take around five days to get better on its own," says Doc. "But without the antibiotics he runs the risk of rheumatic fever later on, which is a serious complication."

I sigh. "Fine, I'll start looking for a pediatrician."

"Good luck," Dr. Frasier says.

"Thanks," I groan. "I'll need it."

I was under the impression that Daniel was sleeping, but he opens his eyes briefly. "What's going on?"

"I have to take you to a pediatrician." I look down at him, and he shivers.

"I'd rather you didn't," he whispers, and I sigh.

"I know," I answer. Everything about him is pitiful right now, and for some reason it makes me feel guilty.

* * *

Okay, so I was right about the screaming children. And the long wait.

All the seats are filled up in the sick waiting room, so I've sat myself in the one remaining chair, with Daniel in my lap, his head against my chest. The fact that he's sitting here so passively, not even protesting at my kidlike treatment of him, is worrying.

"First time you have to take care of him when he's sick, right?"

The voice comes from my left, and I look over. The woman is smiling sympathetically. "It's scary the first few times," she says. "When they get sick, and you don't know what to do… Even if it's just a cold, you're expecting the worst."

I shrug. "Yeah, pretty much," I say.

"Well, don't worry. I'm sure he'll be better soon." She turns away, and calls, "Brian, let the little girl have that toy! You don't need two, sweetheart."

I look down at Daniel, and poke him lightly when I see his eyelids flutter, and then open. "Hey, how you doing?" I ask softly, and he shrugs.

"All right," he says quietly, and I snort in disbelief.

"Yeah, right," I say. "You look great."

"What did you expect me to say?" he asks sleepily, and closes his eyes again. I sigh.

It's only another five minutes before a nurse comes out. "Daniel Jackson?" she calls, and I stand up, Daniel in my arms. She sees us, and says, "Come this way, please."

She escorts us into a small exam room, with an elephant wallpaper theme. There's a toy bin in the corner, but even if Daniel liked playing with toys, I don't think he'd be too interested in them at the moment.

"He has underwear on, right?" the nurse asks

I look at her. "Uh, what?" I ask. What kind of a question is that?

"If he does, you can just take his clothes off and leave the underwear on. I'll be back in a minute, okay?" She leaves, closing the door behind her.

Okay… getting Daniel's clothes off. I can do this. I put him down on the exam bed, which has crinkly paper on it. "Hey, Daniel," I say, and he looks at me silently. I continue, "We need to get you undressed. C'mon." I start by un-velcroing his shoes, and he dazedly watches my hands work for a minute, before slowly pulling off his shirt.

Soon he's sitting there in just his underwear, shivering. I sit down next to him on the crinkly paper table, and he leans against me. "I'm cold," he murmurs, and I take my cue, wrapping an arm around him.

Never thought I'd be hugging a near-naked Daniel. There is a slight ick factor to this, but I ignore it: right now, he needs to be hugged more than I need him to be modest.

A knock comes at the door. "Are you ready?" a voice calls. It's muffled slightly through the door.

"Yeah," I reply, and the door opens to reveal the same nurse as before. "I'm just going to do a couple things, okay?" She smiles at Daniel, who's watching her, then turns to me. "Can he stand up right now?"

I frown, looking at him. "He's been a little wobbly, but he should be able to stand. Daniel?" He looks at me, then struggles to get to the floor. I help him a little, and in a second he's standing.

"Okay, I just want to check your height and weight," the nurse says cheerfully. "Can you stand here please?" She indicates a scale, and Daniel wearily makes his way over to it.

Soon the standing part is over, and the nurse asks Daniel to sit again. "I'm just going to take your temperature and blood pressure and stuff like that, okay?" Daniel nods, again without talking. I'm starting to think that it's a requirement for nurses to say 'just' and 'okay' in every sentence.

"Does he usually talk this little?" the nurse asks, as she's taking Daniel's temperature. It's one of the ear thermometers, and she has it in and out pretty quickly. "Looks like you have a little fever," she adds to Daniel, who shrugs.

"Nah," I answer her. "You should hear him when he's feeling better. He usually never shuts up." The nurse smiles, nods, and marks something in the little chart.

"Okay, all done!" she says. "The doctor should be here in a few minutes." She walks out.

Daniel winces. "She was way too cheerful," he mutters, hugging himself for warmth.

We wait another ten minutes before the doctor comes in. He's one of those old guys who's probably watched generations of kids grow up. He smiles at us as soon as he comes in, and shakes my hand. He ruffles Daniel's hair a little, too, but Daniel only blinks at him. "Hi," he says while he's doing all this stuff, "I'm Dr. Ramsey."

"I'm Jack O'Neill," I reply, "and—"

"I'm Daniel Jackson," says Daniel quietly, then adds even more quietly, "We're peaceful explorers, from the planet earth." He glances at me, and I snicker a little.

The doctor looks at the two of us quizzically, and I stop. "What seems to be the problem?" he asks Daniel, who shrugs.

"My throat hurts," Daniel whispers, and shrugs.

"And you have a fever," I add, "and you've been sleeping about four times as much as normal, and you've been leaning all over everything like you can't stand up."

The doctor looks down at the chart the nurse had, and I add, "His friend got strep throat a few days ago."

"Hmm." The doctor pulls one of those wooden-stick tongue depressor things, and says, "Open up for me, please, Daniel." Daniel complies, and the doctor does his thing with the wooden thing. He looks for a minute with one of those penlights Doc has fun sticking in our eyes, then turns to me and says, "I want a rapid strep test on him. Is that okay?"

I nod, and Ramsey does the same thing Doc did to Lindsay a couple days ago. Unlike Lindsay, however, Daniel gags and coughs, which must hurt his throat, because he scrunches up his face for a moment afterwards.

"All right," says the doctor, after Daniel's done, "you can go sit in the waiting room until we have the test results ready."

So we go back into the waiting room. But the seat I had before is taken now, so I lean against the wall, Daniel propped up on my hip.

"I feel like crap," Daniel mutters into my ear, and I sigh.

"I know," I answer quietly, "but there's nothing I can do about it." Daniel nods against my shoulder, but says nothing. He falls asleep after only a couple minutes.

Ramsey comes out again, about ten minutes after we did. "The test results were positive," he tells me quietly, handing me a slip of paper—the prescription. "I've prescribed some amoxicillin. He needs to take it three times a day for ten days, and not skip a dose." He continues for another few minutes about Tylenol and plenty of fluids, and things like that, and then walks away. I pay the gal at the desk, and we're outta there.

* * *

When I get home, there are footprints in all that pretty snow, and they're not Daniel's or mine. I groan: I'm really not in the mood for a situation today. I get my handgun out of the glove box, but before I can leave the car, Daniel asks, "What's going on?"

"Stay here," I order, and shut the door. I can see Daniel blinking at me from behind the window, but ignore him. I walk soundlessly to the front door, and ease it open after determining it's not locked.

The TV is on, although the lights aren't, and I start wondering if it isn't Maybourne—it's a Maybourne type of thing, to break into an old enemy's house to watch television—but unless he got back on Earth from that place the Tok'ra dumped him, I don't know how he'd get there.

I slowly work my way to the TV room, but nobody's there. But if they're like Maybourne, I figure, they might be in the kitchen. So I turn the corner, intending to check it out—

When I suddenly find myself in the dark hallway pointing my gun at a big, big guy.

"Hello, O'Neill," he says calmly, and I quickly point my gun to the ground.

"You scared the shit outta me," I say to Teal'c, putting the safety back on the gun. "I coulda shot you!"

"You told me I was always welcome at your house," says Teal'c, smiling slightly. "Is this not true?"

I frown. "Of course it is. But how did you get out? I thought the base was on lock-down."

"They have located Dr. Felger, and determined that there is no Goa'uld threat on Earth at this time. I asked permission to inform you of this information, and to help you with Daniel Jackson's illness in any way I can."

"Oh." I sigh. "I really have to kill Felger. Frasier told you about Daniel?"

"Indeed. She also told me to make sure you do not contract the illness, because you are a pain in the ass when you are sick."

I frown. "She said that, did she?"

"Those were her exact words, O'Neill."

I sigh. "I'm gonna hafta talk to her," I say, and go to fetch Daniel. When I get to the car, he's standing outside it—leaning against the car. He's shivering slightly, but looks up at us when we approach.

"I thought I told you to stay in the car!" I shout, and he shrugs.

"I was curious," he replies. "What's Teal'c doing here? And why does a visit from him mean I have to stay in the car?"

"I didn't know it was Teal'c," I mutter, scoop him up, and walk back to the house.

"You don't have to carry me everywhere," Daniel says, despite leaning heavily against me.

"Oh, really?" I reply, opening the front door. "Would you prefer if I put you down right now?"

He frowns. "No, uh…I don't think right now."

I smile, satisfied. "I thought not."

"I'm just tired," he defends himself.

I roll my eyes, and catch Teal'c smiling broadly at our conversation. "What're you lookin' at?" I ask, but he shakes his head.

I sigh, and change the subject. "I have to get Daniel's prescription," I say as I set Daniel down on his kid-sized bed. He gratefully climbs under the covers. "Do you want to stay with him while I'm gone?"

Teal'c gives his little bow. "It would be my pleasure," he says.

Daniel snuggles into the blankets, muttering, "Don't need a babysitter."

* * *

The drugstore is quiet, and I surmise, with my superpower skills, that it's because it's early Monday afternoon. The girl at the pharmacy counter looks like she's half asleep, but she acts professionally when I give her the prescription. "When do you want it, sir?" she asks, and I shrug.

"Soon as possible," I answer.

She nods. "Should be fifteen minutes, then. We're having a slow day."

I smile, and say thanks, while she goes off to fill the prescription. Then I head towards the over-the-counter stuff.

I wince at the 200-plus products they have on the shelves, and manage to find some children's Tylenol (Very Berry Strawberry flavored), cough drops, and a cool new digital thermometer (it takes temperatures in Fahrenheit _and_ Celsius. How cool is that?)

I pay for all the stuff, including the amoxicillin, and head out.

The drive home is uneventful. However, as soon as I get in my house I can sense drama.

Daniel's yelling something I can't hear, and Teal'c replies with his calm, rumbly voice—and Daniel yells something else at Teal'c, which sounds slightly less polite than it could be. I practically sprint to Daniel's bedroom, to find Daniel sitting up in bed, arms crossed, with a grumpy, petulant expression on his face. Daniel turns to me. "Tell him I can have some orange juice," he orders, and I frown, mystified.

"Uh, Teal'c," I say, "What's going on here?"

Teal'c blinks placidly. "Daniel Jackson wishes to imbibe orange juice, which would not be wise in his current condition."

"Why not?"

"See?" Daniel cuts in. "That's what I said."

"Orange juice is acidic, which would cause pain to Daniel Jackson's throat." Teal'c smiles smugly. "I have done research on the care of a child with this disease. It is the same disease as Scarlet fever."

"Ryac had that a few years ago," I realize, and Teal'c nods.

I sigh, and turn to Daniel. "Well, apparently Teal'c is the authority on this stuff. You want something else?"

"He won't let me have lemonade either," Daniel mutters.

"For the same reason," Teal'c says smoothly. "I have only your health in my mind, Daniel Jackson."

I sigh again. "I think we have some grape juice," I offer tentatively, and am rewarded with a snort.

"I _hate_ grape juice!" He slides down so he's mostly under the covers. "I'm just thirsty," he moans.

"Well," I say, "the only thing we have besides grape juice is water."

"You have coffee."

I close my eyes. "No." The only thing I need less than a hyperactive, sick six-year-old Daniel is maybe a Goa'uld as a neighbor.

He huffs. "Fine, water."

I leave the room, heaving a sigh of relief. Jack and Teal'c, one point, diseased Daniel, zero.

_God._

* * *

Daniel takes the amoxicillin with his water, and—happily for Teal'c and me—goes to sleep. He stays that way for most of the afternoon and evening, only waking up briefly to take his next dose of antibiotic and to refuse the food we offer him, looking slightly queasy.

He sleeps pretty well after that, too. Around 11 PM Teal'c and I finally hit the sack—Teal'c sleeps on the sofa, and I settle down in my bedroom, where I can hear Daniel if he needs me.

Sure enough, at around five AM I hear some garbled yelling from his room, and I get up to check it out.

He's fallen out of bed, but he's tangled in the sheets and still struggling and yelling. I wince, and walk over to him.

"Daniel," I say softly, shaking him, "wake up. It's just a dream."

He gradually calms down, and when he realizes what's happening, looks at me and blinks sleepily. "Sorry," he murmurs.

"Don't worry about it," I say, lifting him out of the sheets, and sitting him gently on the floor again. "Lemme make the bed, 'k?" Daniel sighs as I gather up the bedclothes. "Wanna tell me about your dream?" I ask casually.

Daniel sighs again. "It's stupid," he mutters.

I roll my eyes. "If I had a dollar every time somebody told me their dreams were stupid, I'd…well, I'd have more money than I have now, I can tell ya." I look at Daniel. He stares back.

I sigh, and spread the sheet over the bed. "I'll tell you a dream I had the other day." I smooth the wrinkles out, and start tucking the sheet in. "We were on some mission," I say, as I start tucking in the corners, "where you were big." Done with the sheet, I go on to the comforter. "And you got wounded by some…thing, I don't remember, and you died." The comforter has a rip in it, and I remind myself to fix it when there's time. "And then I woke up, and I cried."

"You cried." Daniel's voice is disbelieving.

"Hey," I say, turning to him. "Real men cry."

Daniel snorts softly, and I continue. "I sorta miss _you_—you know, now that you're small, you're… mostly the same person, but sometimes you're not, ya know?" The comforter's done, and I pat it before picking up the pillow. "But I'm really, really glad that you didn't die. 'Cause that would be a million times worse." I'm half hoping that he'll remember this, and half hoping his fevered brain will attribute it to a hallucination.

"Besides," I add lamely, "it was mostly just…wet eyes and sniffing and stuff." I fluff the pillow and put it at the head of the bed. "Bed's ready," I say, and he scrambles up, and is under the covers in record time. "Your turn," I say.

Daniel frowns at me. "What?"

"Your turn," I repeat. "What was your dream?"

He sighs, resigned. "You know how my parents died, right?"

I nod: I got a closer look at that memory than I wanted when we were all held prisoner by the Gamekeeper. When Daniel was eight, his parents were smooshed under an Egyptian temple thing, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

"Well," says Daniel, "I dreamed about that."

Pause.

"Only…uh, it was you instead of my parents, that got crushed."

Ouch.

There's silence for a moment, then I say quietly, "What was I doing in an art museum?"

Daniel shrugs, unhappy.

Another minute passes, and I say, "Look, uh, I'm really…flattered. I…that you feel…God, I'm bad at this." Why is it always so easy for me to tell people this stuff, but not to receive it?

Daniel cracks a smile at my last comment, and I feel a little better. "What I'm trying to say is, thanks. That you…care about me…like that. Although let me say that I'm not planning on dying anytime soon."

Daniel sighs. "I'm not really sleepy anymore," he says, changing the subject completely and confusing me for a moment.

As soon as it registers, I look at my watch. Okay, eighteen hours of sleep for him and six for me. I can work on six hours, and maybe he's hungry enough to eat something.

"Waffles?" I ask, and he shakes his head.

"I'm not _hungry_," he clarifies, "I'm just not tired."

I sigh. "Toast?"

Daniel scrunches up his face. "Toast is okay," he says after a minute, and climbs out of the bed I made so carefully only minutes ago.

He pads into the kitchen, and sits down at the table. Teal'c, in the next room, wakes up and quickly goes into nurse mode, checking Daniel's temperature, giving him more of the antibiotic and generally being almost as much of a nuisance as Frasier.

"He is much better," Teal'c says, pleased, while I'm spreading Daniel's toast—butter _and_ strawberry jam, mixed together, which he loves, despite the weird looks he gets from everyone else. "His fever is down to ninety-nine point four."

I smile. "Yeah, he's a lot more talkative today."

"I believe he is on the road to recovery."

Daniel, who's been listening, says, "Well, my throat still hurts a little. But I bet I can go to work today." He smiles hopefully at me, and I raise my eyebrows in doubt.

"We'll see," is all I'll say.

* * *

I have a hypothesis. My hypothesis is this: the longer the chapter, the more reviews, in general, it receives.According to the data I can get by pressing the little "stats" button, I'm right. This one is extra long, so...  
Help me prove my hypothesis correct!  
And thank you for your time. :P  
-Emilie :) 


	14. Kidnapped!

Hi, guys! Sorry it took so long... Life has interfered. Happily, I've decided what college I want to go to, so that won't intrude anymore... :)  
This story has now been beta'd! Hope you like it!  
-Emilie :)

_Daniel_

My head hurts.

And somebody's mad at me.

That's really all I can figure out right now. I mean, the head thing is obvious, right? My head hurts, that's all there is to it. I'm betting that's why I can't figure anything else out.

And the other thing, that someone's mad: I can hear yelling. It may be Janet, because I'm pretty sure it's a woman, and Sam usually doesn't yell at me, although it's possible. And the only women I really know are Sam and Janet.

I wonder idly if that makes me pathetic.

-----------------------------------------------------

My confusion has backed off—a little bit, at least. Anyway, I can think more clearly. I open my eyes, and realize that we're in a closed van or something: anyway, it's a moving vehicle, with a fair amount of room in the back. There are no windows. I'm lying down on a bench-thing, with a seatbelt to hold me in place, and there's a guy sitting on the bench across from me, grimly staring into space. He's got a gun in his lap, I realize, and I'm suddenly frightened.

I squash the emotion down, and say, "What's going on?"

The guy frowns at me. "That's none of your business," he says shortly, and turns away.

The woman speaks, the one I heard earlier. "We were kidnapped," she says.

Not Janet, I think. I look over: hey, it's Cassie! She's sitting by my head on the bench.

Dammit.

I start to sit up, but Cassie puts her hand on my shoulder. "They hit your head, Daniel. I don't think you should get up."

"I'm okay," I groan. And I am. Mostly.

The world spins and then rights itself, and I'm sitting up.

Cassie frowns. "Are you sure you're all right? You were out of it for a really long time, Daniel." She sounds a little scared.

I sigh. "I'm fine, honest. I've definitely been worse. What happened?"

"I told you, we were kidnapped. Don't you remember?"

I frown. "I remember…Jack's barbecue."

"Right," Cassie says. "For his birthday."

"We were taking the dog for a walk." The guy's frowning at me, but doesn't tell me to be quiet.

"Yeah…"

"And…we were at the park."

"Right, that's where they found us." Cassie shoots an evil look at the guy guarding us. He doesn't respond.

I sigh. "Why?"

"Will you two just shut up?"

Cass frowns. "What're you gonna do, shoot us?"

The guy frowns. "I might," he says deliberately.

Cassie snorts. "I'm sure that would please whoever you're working for, right? Shoot the kids you kidnapped? It must have been for a reason."

The guy rolls his eyes. "Fine, I won't shoot you. But shut up, you're giving me a headache."

"Don't talk to me about headaches," I mutter.

Cass looks down at me. "Daniel?"

I sigh. "Relax, I'm fine. It's just a headache, that's normal when someone brains you."

Cassie looks ready to protest again, but the guy on the other bench speaks up. "Look, girlie, the kid's okay. Trust me. When kids aren't okay, they make sure you know about it." He turns to me, and says, "And I didn't _brain_ you."

Cass glares at him. "You don't know this _kid,_" she tells him.

The guy rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says, "suit yourself. But like I said, stop talking, it's giving me a headache."

My head throbs in agreement.

----------------------------------------------------------------

"Hey, kids, wake up. We're here." A rough hand grabs my shoulder and takes it.

"Where?" I groan, rubbing my eyes. The headache's still there, though not as noticeable.

"Here," the voice repeats. It's the guy on the other bench—only now he's not on-the-other-bench, he's shaking us awake. "C'mon," he says, "you guys have to get up."

Cassie sighs softly: she's fallen asleep as well. "What's going on?" she says, her voice sleepy.

"Get _up!_" the guy says, grabbing my left arm and Cassie's right, and literally pulls us to our feet.

"All right, all right," Cassie grumbles. "You don't have to get huffy."

"Well, you weren't getting up," the guy says, a little angry.

A different voice comes from the front of the van. It says, "You aren't fighting with the kids, Mike, are you?" The voice is mocking and makes me angry, even though it's not directed at me. This guy, Mike, can't be much older than Cassie—_maybe _twenty—but to him, we're 'kids'—a young woman who, if she were on her own planet, would be having babies, and a 38-year-old man in a six-year-old body.

_But he doesn't know,_ I think. Then, _Wait, no being nice to these people. They kidnapped us!_

"C'mon," says the guy—_Mike—_and opens the door. Then he gently pushes us out of the van.

We're in a garage, like you'd see in a suburb. It smells like gasoline and cigarette smoke, and I wrinkle my nose at the combination.

Mike climbs out of the van behind us. "Ready to see your friends?" he asks, smiling. He's acting nicer now.

Cassie and I look at each other. "Friends?"

"Yeah. C'mon, I'll show you." He leads us into the house, and through some rooms—kitchen, dining room, living room. We're led up some carpeted stairs, and ushered into a bedroom. It's big, but a lot of space is taken up by the two sets of bunkbeds. There are several more kids in the room, too, standing in a corner. "There ya go," the guy says. "Friends. Have fun, okay?" He closes the door, and we can hear it lock behind us.

------------------------------------------------------------

"Hi, Daniel," one of the kids says, subdued. She's in a shadow, but she steps forward when she talks: it's Lindsay. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"

I shrug. "Pretty much," I say. "Wanna introduce me to these people?" I gesture to the other kids.

"I don't know them," Lindsay says in a small voice.

Cassie looks at the others. "You guys haven't introduced yourselves?"

Headshakes. These guys are obviously all scared stiff.

"Well, why don't we all do that?" Cassie asks encouragingly. "It'll help if we all know who everybody is."

"Okay," says one boy, who looks like he's in his early teens. He's holding a little girl on his hip. "They did this at camp. Let's sit in a circle and say our names and ages and favorite food."

"Uh—" I interject, and the kids stare at me. "Instead of favorite food, why don't we say what our parents' jobs are?"

The kid rolls his eyes. "That's stupid," he says. "Why? You wanna be just like Daddy?"

I blink. "Not really," I say. "But I think it may be relevant."

I get uncomprehending blinks from some of the kids, but one boy, who's a little younger than the kid with the little girl, says, "He's right. After all, they kidnapped us. We should start gathering clues." _Ah, a detective in the making._

_And that Lindsay's here, along with Cass and me, is a big enough one to look to Cheyenne Mountain for the source of these kids, _I think. Also, these kids are freaked out, and calming them down can only help.

"Let's get started," Cassie says, taking charge again. "C'mon, let's sit in a circle." When they do, it's easier to see what the kids are like. Cassie's the oldest. The youngest kid looks about three: she's the girl Mr. Outspoken Teen had on his hip, and she's sucking her thumb. "Okay, I'll start," Cassie says. "My name is Cassandra Frasier, and I'm seventeen. My mom works at Cheyenne Mountain."

"What about your dad?" Lindsay asks curiously.

"I don't have a father," Cassie says calmly, and turns to me. "Your turn, Daniel?"

"Sure," I say, and turn to the group. "I'm Daniel Jackson, and I'm…six. I work—uh, my father works at Cheyenne Mountain."

"A clue!" says the detective-boy, who's sitting next to me. "Me next. I'm Ben Felson. I'm twelve, and…My dad works at Cheyenne Mountain!" he crows, and then adds, "He's a marine. I think working in a dark, yucky mountain would be awful, but he says it's exiting. You next." He turns to Lindsay.

"I'm Lindsay and I'm six," says Lindsay in a small voice. "My dad is linguinist at SGC, only I don't know where that is."

"Stargazer Complex," Cassie says quickly. "They work with telescopes. That's at Cheyenne too."

Quick thinking, Cass. I sigh quietly in relief, and Cassie gives me a quick grin.

We turn to the next kid, who's the guy with the little girl. "I'm Scott," he says. "Scott Siler. I'm fourteen. This is Amy, who's three. She's my sister. And my dad's a technician—also at Cheyenne Mountain." _So these are Siler's kids,_ I think.

We turn to the last guy, who hasn't said a word yet. "I'm ten," he says quietly, looking at his hands. "I'm Jake. My mom works at NORAD."

"In Cheyenne Mountain," Cassie concludes. "So there's our clue right there."

"Now what do we do?" asks Ben, child detective. "Do we need to look for more clues? I can interview people!"

Cassie looks at me, and I shrug.

"Hey, what're you consulting him for?" asks Scott. "He's just a baby!"

Cassie frowns at him. "This is the smartest 'baby' you're ever going to meet, Scott."

Scott shrugs and looks away. "Whatever, dude."

Jake speaks up—well, he talks. He's not very loud. "I—I don't want to be interviewed."

"I do!" says Lindsay. "It sounds really neat. Can we, Daniel?"

I look at Cassie, who says, "Whoever wants to be interviewed can be. Ben, I assume you want to be the interviewer?"

"Yeah!" he says excitedly.

"Okay," says Cassie, "but only people who want to be interviewed, and if they don't want to answer a question they don't have to."

In the end, everyone gets 'interviewed' except Jake, Cassie and me. Scott looks reluctant, but his sister Amy is so excited that he agrees to help her.

"You're pretty good with kids," I say to Cassie, while the others are playing Interview.

She shrugs. "I babysit some," she says. "How's your head?"

I smile. "It's fine, Cass, I told you. Maybe a mild concussion, but nothing worse than that, I promise."

She sighs. "Okay. Good."

We sit in silence for a minute, watching the kids play, and then Cass says, "Daniel, what are we going to do?"

I shrug. "We wait until someone rescues us, and in the meantime, if the opportunity presents itself, and there are low risks—very low risks, with the crowd we've got here—we try to escape. Most likely, though, Jack'll get here first."

Cass pouts. "Why do they want us, anyway?"

"Could be for information, could be blackmail. Ransom, possibly, but it's unlikely, considering."

"Well…if they ask, what do we tell them?"

"Just tell them your mom's a doctor at Cheyenne and you don't know what she does there. I don't think they'll torture us, so you don't have to worry about that."

Cassie goes a little pale. "Torture?" she asks quietly.

"Uh…yeah. Like I said, though, I don't think they'll go for that."

"You don't _think._"

I shrug. "It wouldn't make sense. We're—"

The door opens, and I shut up.

The guy who opens the door—not Mike—smiles at us. "Hey, guys," he says, and everyone stops what they're doing and looks at him. He's older than Mike, but other than that he looks a lot alike. Brothers, maybe. "I see you've all made friends. Good! Now, can one of you come with me, so me and my friends can meet you?"

I wince. _Bad grammar._

"Well? Will one of you come, or do I have to choose you?" I suppress a smile: it sounds like he's threatening to call someone in a recalcitrant classroom to the blackboard.

"I'll go," I say, fully aware of how cliché this is becoming.

"Good. C'mon," says the guy, and gestures out the door. I follow.

It's just a _house,_ I think, as we walk down the corridor. It's not something you'd think of as an ideal place to store kidnapped children. There are mirrors and bad paintings on the walls, and I can see a baseball cap sitting on a table in the corner, beside a phone.

_The team,_ my mind screams at me. _Find out what the team is, figure out what team that cap has on it!_

Although I don't really follow sports, understand them, or even _tolerate_ them, I am vaguely aware of a certain geographical loyalty on the part of the fans. I run quickly to the baseball cap, and start to act. "Cool, baseball! I love baseball. I wanna be a baseball player when I grow up. Is this your favorite team?" I look down at the cap. _The Rockies_ is emblazoned on it. _Okay. Remember that. The Rockies._

The guy smiles slightly. "Yeah, that's my favorite team. How about you? What's yours?"

"Uh… the Yankees," I say, the Yankees being the only baseball team I know.

He nods. "Okay. I'll give you that. Although the Yankees are a long way from here."

Ah, another clue: we're nowhere near New York. But I was pretty sure we weren't anyway.

"Here," I say, handing him the cap. He reaches down to take it.

"Thanks. Let's get going, okay?"

I comply, and keep acting. "What are we gonna do?"

"Just ask you some questions. Me and my friends want to get to know you, is all."

I suppress the urge to say, "Actually, it should be 'My friends and _I._'" Instead, I say, "Okay. Sure."

Most likely they know about the Stargate program, and want to know more. But why take a kid who's only connected to NORAD? Those guys don't know about us—well, they don't know anything except that we're there.

So, maybe they don't know very much at all. They knew about something going on at Cheyenne, and randomly chose the children of people they followed home, or something.

Down the stairs we'd ascended before, and into the living room we'd gone through. There are two other guys in there, including Mike. The corners are dark, but I can see a little red light flashing in one of them. _Video camera._

"Hey," says the guy I haven't seen yet. "Why don't you take a seat, and we can have a little conversation, okay?"

_Okay. **Act**. You're a six-year-old. Act like Lindsay. _

"Okay," I say cheerfully, and climb into the chair provided for me. The Mike-brother person sits with the other men.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Daniel," I say readily. No reason to lie about that: either they know who Daniel Jackson is, or they don't, but _nobody_ outside the SGC knows that I'm the same guy as the one who figured out the stargate, is a member of SG-1, etc. So me being Daniel is just a coincidence. "What's your names?"

The Mike's-brother-guy smiles indulgently. "I'm James," he says. "This is Mike, and that guy is Freddie. What's your last name?"

"Well, O'Neill, of course." Technically true, since Jack's 'adopting' me. "That's my daddy's last name, so I have it too."

"Okay. Speaking of your daddy, what does he do?"

"He's a Colonel in the Air Force. He flys planes and kills bad guys and stuff."

Also technically true. Being six is underrated: this is the best disguise ever.

"What kind of bad guys?"

"Oh, you know, bad guys that want to hurt us."

"Who's 'us'?"

What is this, an interrogation?

Oh, right.

"Nice people, like me." Generously, I add, "You, too, I guess," while thinking, _We're gonna kick your butts._

Mike's shifting uncomfortably in his seat, but James shoots him a look and he stops. "Have you ever been to the place where your dad works?"

"Cheyenne? Sure. My favorite part is the commissary, which is like a lunchroom only for grown-ups. They have food there _all day,_ and really cool blue jell-o, even though my favorite flavor is the red, which I think is cherry."

"Have you ever seen anything…odd at Cheyenne?"

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"Have you ever seen aliens?"

Yes. "No," I scoff. "Who believes in aliens?"

"Daniel," says Freddie, leaning forward, "we believe that the government is involved in a very scary plot to take over the country, and that Cheyenne is at the heart of it. We believe that people from outer space—aliens—are in control of key people in the government, and want to hurt ordinary people like you, me and my friends here."

_Ohhh,_ conspiracy theorists. I should've known.

"Aliens aren't real," I say disbelievingly. "I know. Dad told me that aliens aren't real when he told me about Santa and the tooth fairy."

James sighs. "Okay, Daniel. We're going to take you back to your room now, okay?"

I pout. "When can I go _home?_"

He pauses. "We need to talk to your friends," is all he says.

Great.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"What did they ask about?" Cassie says.

I shrug. "They're conspiracy theorists. They wanted to know about the aliens that are taking over the world from Cheyenne Mountain." I look briefly over at the other kids, who are still playing interrogation. _They're not the only ones,_ I think.

"Did they…torture you?"

I frown. "Usually when someone's been tortured, they don't look so good. At the very least they'll be upset. Do I look hurt or upset to you?"

Cassie rolls her eyes. "Daniel…"

"Relax. The only torture device they have at their disposal is the ability to maul the English language."

Cass sighs and looks down at me. "What are we going to do?"

"All we can really do is wait. Hey, do you know the baseball team 'The Rockies?'"

Cass blinks. "Daniel, they're based in Colorado." An unuttered _duh_ hangs over our heads.

"Oh. Good. Then maybe we aren't so far from home."

"I don't even want to know how you know that. What do we do for food?"

I look at my watch. "Oh, dinnertime."

"Yeah. And despite being terrified, I'm still hungry. Go figure." She smiles tightly.

I roll my eyes. "Look, nothing's going to happen to us. I get the feeling they're incompetent, as a matter of fact. Jack'll find us, and we'll go home."

"You've got an awful lot of faith in Jack," Cassie says dubiously.

I frown. "He's earned it, more times than I can count. Besides, if we can we're going to give him a little help."

"How?"

I shrug. "We'll think of something." We're quiet, thinking. My head starts hurting again, but I keep quiet.

James comes in. "We need to talk to someone else. Who'll volunteer?"

"Um, actually," Cassie points out, "we're kind of hungry. Can we get any food?"

James rolls his eyes. "We'll get you some food. Meanwhile, who wants to volunteer to be next? It's really fun, right, Daniel?"

I shrug. "Sure, I guess." I nudge Cassie, who looks at me.

"Uh, I'll go," she says after a minute. "But only if we get food afterwards. You can't starve little kids, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. Follow me."

He closes the door and locks it, and I sigh in relief. I can trust Cassie not to give anything away, but I need to talk to the other kids to make sure they don't.

Without giving anything away to them myself, I realize. _Oy._

"Lindsay," I call, and she looks over.

"Hi, Daniel," she calls back, smiling.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure." She trots over. "It's a really fun game. And Ben's good at interviewing. Only if someone doesn't want to talk, he stops, like Cassie said."

"What's he asking about?" I ask curiously.

Lindsay shrugs. "_You_ know. He's trying to ancipate what the mean guys who took us are gonna say. So he asked me about my daddy, and I said about when I was sick and I went to SGC and Jack took care of me."

I frown. "Ancipate? You mean anticipate?"

"Yeah, ansissipate." She smiles at me.

I sigh. "Lindsay, when you really do talk to the mean guys who took us, I don't think you should mention the SGC, okay? Just say 'Cheyenne' instead. And since your dad's job is secret, you shouldn't tell them very much about it. If they ask, just say you don't really know what he does."

Lindsay frowns. "Okay. Should I tell everyone else to do that, too?"

I smile. "That'd be great, Lindsay. That would help a lot."

"Good," she says, grinning, and skips to the other side of the room.

I sigh, sit against a wall, and close my eyes. My head's hurting, and I'm sleepy. I think I'll just…

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Daniel!" A hand shakes my shoulder, and I mutter and push the hand away. I'm trying to _sleep,_ dammit!

"Daniel, wake up. Food!"

I blink. "Sleepy," I murmur, but the hand keeps shaking. A small one joins in, and the tiny fingers tickle me. "Stop!"

"Well, wake up, stupid!" The voice is slightly panicked, so I open my eyes.

Cassie and Lindsay.

"Food?" I ask, and Cassie sighs in relief.

"I thought it was your head injury," she says. "You know, you hear all those stories about people with concussions falling asleep and never waking up…"

I roll my eyes. "You should listen to your mom more."

Cass frowns at me. "Where do you think I heard the stories?"

I sigh. "Fine. Where's the food?"

"Over here," she says, leading me to the place the other kids were playing Interrogation. "And after we eat I'm going to take a look at your head."

"Even if I start hemorrhaging—which I don't think is likely, by the way—what are you going to do about it?"

"Something," Cassie says grimly. "I'll bang on the door until someone opens up, and then I'll beat whoever answers senseless and steal his cell phone and call 911."

I smile. "Nice plan. We could even put that one into action without me going into a coma."

Cassie snorts. "Yeah, right."

I look at the food. "Mac and cheese?"

"Apparently not very good cooks," says Scott, who's dishing out the macaroni. "I think it's the instant stuff."

I shrug. "Better than some stuff I've eaten." MREs, for instance. Along with a big bowl to carry the stuff, our captors have provided smaller, colorful, melt-in-the-microwave plastic bowls from which to eat.

Joey, the quiet kid, says, "Your parents don't cook well?"

I smile ruefully. "Jack really goes in for barbecue," I say.

"And not much else," adds Cassie.

Macaroni is slopped into my stunning neon-orange bowl—I suddenly remember Hadante—and I sit down next to Lindsay.

"Hi," she says.

I smile. "Hi. How's the macaroni?"

She takes a bite. "My dad makes it like this," she says.

I wrinkle my nose: somehow, Breton doesn't strike me as the best candidate for a cook.

"His sushi's a lot better," Lindsay says defensively, after seeing my look.

I smile: yeah, that's Breton.

"Did you hit your head again?" Lindsay asks curiously.

"Again?"

"Yeah. Remember the dodgeball game? You fell and you were bleeding, and they wouldn't let me see you. And I called you later and you were really nice."

I smile. "Yeah. I hit my head earlier today, but it's not bleeding this time."

"Then it's not as bad," Lindsay says dismissively.

I smile slightly. "Exactly."

---------------------------------------------------------

Once I finish the crap mac'n'cheese, Cassie comes over to me. "Your head," she says, and I roll my eyes.

"Fine. But there's nothing to do about it."

"Let me be the judge of that," says Cassie. I wince at how similar she sounds to her mother.

She sits squarely in front of me, and runs her hands through my hair. It feels nice, actually, although I'm not going to tell her that. Then she hits the sore spot, a little above my left ear, and I pull away. "Ouch!"

"Sorry," says Cassie. "You have a bump there."

"Good. Now that you're aware of my bump, what are you going to do differently?"

Cassie rolls her eyes and pulls away. "Snarky," she mutters.

I snort. "Whatever that means."

"Snarky! You know… sarcastic and bitchy and so on."

"Bitchy? Me?" I thought that was a strictly feminine trait.

"Yeah! Bitchy, like…oh, come on! You're a linguist, you should know this stuff!"

"Apparently I'm not caught up on my teen slang," I murmur.

Ben's frowning at us. "How can Daniel be a linguist? He's only six, right?"

"My father was," I explain. "I know a lot of languages, that's all."

"Oh." He looks like he's going to say something else, but we hear the door unlocking, and Mike comes in. "Next kid. Who's it gonna be?" When nobody volunteers, he says, "Okay. You," and points at Ben. The boy gets up, looks uncertainly at us, and then leaves with Mike.

Cassie sighs. "Do you think they're getting anything from us?"

I shrug. "No way of telling. They could be 'getting something' from the color of our clothing. After all, they're conspiracy theorists."

"Right," says Cassie.

I look at my watch: 8 PM. I'm usually awake for a few more hours than that, but I figure on a day like today, I can give myself a break. I let my eyes slide closed, and try to think of nothing.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

"Daniel, wake up!"

Cassie again. I groan.

"Daniel…!"

"Stop it," I murmur. " 'm not hemorrhaging, I promise."

"It's not that. Wake _up!"_ She shakes me, hard, which jars my head.

I wince and open my eyes. "_What?"_

"Listen, they just took Scott and Amy. You know, she's little, so she was making a big fuss when they grabbed her…"

"_And?"_ Yeah, so I'm not a cheerful person when I've just woken up. Deal with it.

"So, I think the guy was so focused on her that he didn't lock the door."

I sit up quickly. "Really?"

"Yes!"

"Okay." I stand and walk to the door, carefully testing the doorknob.

It turns. I smile, and turn to Cassie. "You were right!"

"What are we going to do? Run away?"

"No, we probably wouldn't get very far. Besides, the Siler kids would still be trapped." I look around: the rest of the kids are sleeping, either on the floor or on the beds.

"So…"

"So, I get out and try to alert the SGC somehow."

Cassie frowns. "Will you be safe?"

I shrug. "If I'm caught, I do the dumb six-year-old routine." She looks doubtful, but lets me go. I carefully open the door, peer out and, seeing nobody, creep down the hall. I'm around the corner from where I saw the baseball hat when I realize there was a telephone next to the hat. I quickly walk to the telephone, and pick it up.

Dial tone. Yes! I carefully dial Jack's cell phone number, praying it's on. It rings once…twice…three times…four…

I'm about to hang up when a gruff voice says, "Who is this?"

"Jack?" I talk quietly, hoping they don't hear me downstairs.

"_Daniel?_ Where the hell are you? We've been looking for you and Cassie for hours!"

"We were kidnapped. There're five other kids here, all children of Cheyenne Mountain employees. I found a Rockies baseball cap, so I think we're still in Colorado."

Jack's silent for a second, then says, "What kind of a building are you in?"

"A house. It's got two levels and a garage that connects to the house. You can use caller ID on your phone to find out where we are, right?"

"Yeah, I can. Listen, do the people holding you know you're making this call?"

"No, I don't think so. They left the door unlocked by accident."

"Good. Get back to the room and pretend nothing's happened."

"Okay, bye—"

"Wait!"

"What?" I ask.

"Are you guys ok? Nobody's hurt?"

"No," I say, conveniently neglecting to mention my headache.

"Okay, then, go."

I hang up and walk quickly but silently back to the room.

Cassie's waiting for me. As soon as I get back, she asks, "What happened? Did you get in touch with anyone?"

"Jack," I respond. "He's got the number of the phone I was using, so hopefully he'll be able to figure out where the house is. We'll probably be out of here by morning."

"We should pretend to be asleep," Cassie suggests, "so when they get here and find the door unlocked they won't suspect anything."

"Good idea," I say, and lie down where I was sleeping before. I quickly fall asleep, and don't even hear Scott and Amy return.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm awoken to shouting downstairs. I rub my eyes and sit up, and see a dark shape—a man, but I can't see who. He looks at me when I move, and then starts towards me.

Being half awake, I do the first thing that comes to me: cower. I can hear him come closer, and then a hand is placed on my shoulder. "Daniel?"

I know that voice! "Jack?"

"Yeah. What have they been doing to you? You're…jumpy."

"They've been letting me sleep," I mutter.

"Well," says Jack cheerfully, helping me up, "if you want to stay here and have a little nap, go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

"Evidence points to the contrary," I say, rubbing my eyes and looking around for the other kids.

Yep, they're all here—asleep, but here. I walk over to Cassie and shake her.

"What?" she mutters sleepily. I smile, realizing how often in the past day this scene has been played out the other way around.

"Wake up, they're here!"

"Pizza?" she asks, her voice rising as she yawns.

I roll my eyes: must be a dream. "No, Jack and some other people who're gonna get us out of here!"

She wakes up some more. "Oh," she says, and sits up. "When are we getting out of here?"

"I don't know," I say, turning back to Jack, who's talking quietly to Lindsay. We walk up to stand behind him, and he smiles briefly and then turns to Lindsay.

"Wanna help us wake these other guys up?" he asks, and she nods. "Good," says Jack. "Let's get outta here."

Soon, everyone's awake and stumbling around the room. Jack radios someone, and then says, "It's safe to go down, guys. Let's go."

We stumble down in the darkness, blinking and rubbing our eyes. Jack leads us through a door in the kitchen that leads outside, and into three rather comfy cars. Cassie, Lindsay and I all sit in the same car.

From the window, I sleepily watch Freddie, Mike, and James being led into another car in front of us. They're wearing handcuffs.

"They thought there were aliens trying to take over the world," Lindsay says sleepily. "But that's just silly, right, Daniel?"

I smile. "Right."

Jack, in the passenger seat, says, "Did they get anything?"

"I don't think so," I murmur. "Not from me, anyway. There's a tape."

Jack frowns. "I'm gonna find that," he says, and leaves us with the driver, who glances at us sympathetically and then turns away to let us sleep.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm asleep the rest of the night, and through the morning, so I miss the drive from Denver to Colorado Springs. All the kids are taken home—I think the idea is 'they've been through enough'—and I only wake up when Jack comes in around lunchtime the next day.

"Wakey, wakey," he says, poking me.

"You know," I say, "if there was any justice, people who've been kidnapped should be allowed to sleep once it's over." But I open my eyes. I feel rested for the first time in the past day.

"I watched this," says Jack, holding up a videotape.

"The tape of the guys questioning us?"

"Yup. Nice acting, by the way."

"Shut up," I say calmly. "Did they get anything?"

"Well, it doesn't matter _too_ much, since they're going to jail. But the only security breaches I saw were Lindsay saying 'SGC'—which she explained meant 'Stargazing Complex' or something—" He looks quizzically at me.

"Cassie came up with that," I say. "I thought it was quite clever."

"Indeed it was," Jack agrees. "The other security breach, if you could call it that, was a rather detailed description of the commissary." He grins at me.

"I have nothing to say about that," I say grumpily, and get up to find some clothes. I realize I'm in my pajamas, and wonder idly how I got in them.

"The Doc wants to examine you," says Jack.

I stop rummaging through the pants drawer and look at him. "Why?" I ask

"Something about a bump on the head," Jack says innocently. "I'm sure you understand."

"I'm perfectly fine," I grumble, pulling on the pants and grabbing a shirt at random from the next drawer down.

"Cassie thought otherwise. Frasier's waiting."

I frown. "You mean she's here _now?_"

"Yup," comes a voice from behind the closed door to my bedroom.

"Dammit," I mutter.

"Janet. I love you…" sings Jack, getting up and opening the door for the doctor.

She comes in, shooting a look at Jack, and says, "Oh, Brad…"

I must look pretty confused, because after looking at me, they both say in tandem, "Rocky Horror Picture Show."

"Oh," I murmur.

"Now," says Janet, "I hear you hit your head yesterday." She raises her eyebrows, and I know I'm in trouble.

"I'm fine," I protest, but Janet doesn't buy it. She sits me down on the bed, and starts examining my head exactly as Cassie did yesterday.

"Let me be the judge of that," she says.

--------------------------------------------------------------

I got 54 reviews for this story after writing the last chapter. So far, my hypothesis is correct. This is another long chapter... (Emmy crosses her fingers)  
I love reviews! If you review, not only will you be partaking in an important statistical experiment, but I also promise to think of you when I'm eating my Cherry Garcia ice cream.


	15. The Thing they Find on Another Planet

Hey! How 'bout that timing, eh? Only...uh... okay, twenty-two days. So it sucks. Deal with it! Anyway, it's less than last time. Hope you enjoy it!  
-Emilie

_

* * *

Jack_

I keep expecting Daniel to come downstairs, but he hasn't yet. 0900 is a little early for Daniel, I suppose, but I'm getting restless, so I put down the book I've been reading and head upstairs.

Yup, he's sleeping all right. It's hard to understand how he can sleep so much—he slept past twelve yesterday, which I can understand, since he was getting over a concussion. But sleeping until nine o'clock on a Wednesday…

I sit down on the bedside, and quietly say, "Daniel." He doesn't move, so I shake him lightly, which gets him blinking.

"What?" he asks sleepily, sitting up as he rubs his eyes.

"Frasier said you could come to work today if you're up to it," I say enticingly.

"Oh," he says, clearly on autopilot. He hops out of the bed, exposing his PJs—the most grown-up stuff we could find that would fit his tiny body. Rummaging around in his dresser, he pulls out some clothes, turns to me, and says, "Either leave or close your eyes."

I comply, amused. "You know," I mention, "it's not like there's anything there I haven't seen before. We share a locker room, remember?"

"Yeah, but…it's different now." I can hear cloth rustle.

"It's…"

"Different. I look different."

"Well, of course you look different," I say. "You're six. Six-year-olds' bodies are different from thirty-eight-year-olds' bodies. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"Maybe I do," Daniel mutters, and then says, "You can open your eyes." I do so, to see him pulling on his socks.

"What do you mean, 'maybe you do'?" I ask, frowning. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, mind your own business!" Daniel snaps, and then says, "Sorry. I just…never mind." He finishes tying one shoe, and turns to the other.

"This isn't about your penis, is it?" I ask casually.

Daniel goes brick red. "No!" he says loudly. "And I don't really think we should be having this—"

"Because if that's what you're worried about, I can say from experience that when you're six, it's not very big. It'll grow eventually."

Daniel blinks. He looks horrified that we're having this conversation (if you can call it that,) but—dare I say it?—a little relieved. "Okay," he says in a strangled voice. "Breakfast?"

"Waffles," I reply, and get up.

"You have a waffle maker?" Daniel asks.

"Eggo waffles," I clarify, going downstairs. "They're good. No sausages though," I add evilly.

"Right," Daniel mutters, following me.

* * *

"Okay," Doc tells Daniel, "you're cleared for 'gate travel."

Daniel blinks. "_Gate_ travel? Really?"

I grin. "We found an uninhabited planet we thought you'd find interesting."

Daniel blinks, then grins really, really widely. "Great! That's…great. When are we going?"

"Later today," I say. "Departure time is scheduled for 1530." I can see Daniel mentally translating it to 3:30PM, and take a second to be proud that he's come so far since he first joined my team.

Dr. McKenzie is walking by, and seems to be listening in. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea for Daniel to go off-world yet, Dr. Frasier," he says quietly.

Janet turns in surprise. "Why? His concussion has healed up. And it's a safe world."

"There may be psychological trauma from the kidnapping." He glances at me. "I'd be happy to set up an appointment, if you'd like to talk about it."

"Well, you should discuss appointments with Daniel," I say.

Daniel gives me an evil look, which says, _I have to DEAL with this guy?_ and rolls his eyes. "It's not like I haven't been kidnapped before," he says. "Besides, they set us in a nice room with comfy beds, asked us questions without raising their voices, treated us decently, and gave us mac'n'cheese. They weren't very scary."

Mackenzie frowns. "Well…"

"Besides," Daniel says quickly, "I bet there are lots of things you need me for at the site, right, Jack? Things to translate and so on?"

I suppress a grin. "Oh yeah," I say, "oodles and oodles of…picto-things. I think they're…Greek or something. Anyway, that's what the Freer guy said."

"Dr. Freer, yeah. See?" Daniel says, turning back to McKenzie, who frowns, shrugs, and looks at his watch.

"I have to go; I'm late for a meeting," he says, and walks away.

I chuckle. "Déjà vu," I say quietly, and Daniel and Doc both look at me. _What?_ their expressions ask, so I say, "Reminded me of Daniel convincing ol' General West to let him go through the 'gate the first time. 'Please, I'll be _so_ good, and I can _help_, and you _need_ me…'"

"Well, you _did_ need me," Daniel muttered. "You'd've been screwed without me, in the end, and you know it."

"True," I say. After all, he did save Abydos, my life, my sanity, and who knows what else. Daniel looks mollified.

"Is there a briefing," he asks, hopping off the exam table, "or do we just gate in?"

I nod. "Briefing at 1300 hours," I say. "Do whatever you need to do before then."

Daniel smiles sunnily at me. "Okay," he says. "Think I'll ask Mike Freer if he has any pictures of the planet."

"You…do that," I say, but he's gone before I've finished.

* * *

Carter cracks up at Daniel's BDUs. They _are_ funny—tiny and kinda cute, but I figure there are enough horrifying things Daniel can do to me that I don't want to insult him. As it is, I don't want to be Carter for the next few hours. Daniel can really sulk, if he wants to.

He was in the locker room half an hour early, examining his bag and vest. He was interested to learn that, his vest being smaller, the guys who put the stuff together had to leave out some stuff. "Interesting that they took out the sunblock and emergency blanket, but still stuck the tampons and condoms in," he said.

I need to have a talk with those guys…

But happily, Daniel is in the gateroom in time for the mission, so we leave on time—everybody saying 'good luck' and 'congratulations' to Daniel, of course.

We walk through the stargate, and my retinas are immediately punched by the rising sun. I squint in an automatic reaction, and scan the area around the stargate. It's rocky, but not hilly. There are a fair amount of plants around, but they're scraggly.

"Major Gray said a mile due west," I say, pulling out my compass and glancing at it, before pocketing it and heading in the right direction. "Carter, point. Teal'c, take our sixes. Daniel and I are in the middle." We head out at our usual pace. Daniel is grinning as widely as Jonas always used to when he'd do something new, despite having to run every few steps to keep up.

After about twenty minutes, we get to the ruins. There are several buildings around a courtyard thingy. The most intact building is right at the end of the courtyard: it's only missing one column and a little bit of the roof. Daniel, of course, goes right to this one. He must have a lot of energy today, because he runs into the building. I can see him pulling off his backpack as I make my slightly-more-leisurely way over.

"What's this?" I ask.

Daniel looks up at me. "Greek. Doric architecture." He opens his backpack up and starts digging—probably for his camcorder.

I roll my eyes. "So? We have that on Earth, right?"

"There's writing," he says absently, gesturing at the walls. With his other hand, he triumphantly pulls out his video camera, and immediately starts filming, talking quietly to himself.

When he starts mumbling, I think, I know it's gonna be a while. Carter and Teal'c peek in, and I say quietly, "Take a look around this place. We're not going anywhere for a while." Teal'c nods and Carter smiles, and they both leave. This trip is really for Daniel, and I don't think anybody resents it. After six months of being shrunk, he deserves to do something he likes.

Daniel lowers his camcorder. "This is odd," he says, and I walk over.

"What's odd?"

"Well, this is pure ancient Greek. No deviation at all."

I frown. "So? What does that mean?"

"Well, I'll have an easier time translating it, for one," he says, and starts scanning the walls, reading them like I would a book.

"You can just…_read_ this?" I ask. "Without any reference materials or anything?"

"Well, I just said it was pure Ancient Greek," Daniel says.

"Yeah, but…still. You're reading it like it's English. It's _Greek._"

Daniel blinks and looks at me. "My major in college was classical studies," he says slowly. "Of _course_ I know Greek."

"Forget I asked," I mutter, and he turns back to the squiggly writing. After a minute or so, I turn away, and sit down on the opposite side of the room, and say quietly, "It's all Greek to me…"

I can see Daniel smile slightly, but he doesn't look my way.

* * *

Carter and Teal'c finish looking around, and then return to our building—which I've started thinking of as a temple out of habit—and sit down next to me, watching our tiny but infinitely competent archaeologist at work. It's relaxing, in a way, to know that some things are never going to change.

After puttering around for about half an hour, Daniel turns to us and says, "There should be something here."

I look up in surprise. "Something…like what?"

"Technology," Daniel clarifies. "A machine…I don't understand exactly what it's supposed to do, but it should be around here somewhere."

"It's not necessarily here anymore," Carter says dubiously. "Teal'c and I looked all around this place, and we saw nothing out of the ordinary."

"It is not uncommon for the Goa'uld to take any technology with them when they leave a planet, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c says. "It is, in fact, the norm."

Daniel smiles slightly at Teal'c's words, but says, "I've got a hunch it's still here."

Who are we to argue with Daniel's hunches?

"These people worshipped Chronos," he says, and I'm immediately wary.

"Cronus? That guy Teal'c didn't like, that was weird with the frizzy gray hair?"

Daniel smiles slightly. "No. Chronos," he reiterates. "Although the two are often confused. Chronos was, or maybe is, I suppose, the God of Time, so I was thinking…this device was written about in conjunction with time. It might be somewhere to _do_ with time, such as a clock or calendar."

Carter shakes her head. "We didn't see anything like that around here."

"How about a clepsydra?" Daniel asks, and quickly clarifies, "A water clock, I mean. It probably isn't functioning anymore." He heads outside again, looking at the courtyard again. It's tiled, but there's a lot of green-gray grass that's growing through the cracks. Daniel walks carefully around it, and then, near the middle, says, "Here." We all walk over: it looks like a spot, about three feet squared, without any tiles, where grass is growing all over. Daniel squats beside it and starts gently pulling the grass out, brushing dust away. "Jack," he says, "can you get my tools?"

I quickly do so, and he starts digging. "If I worshipped time," Daniel says, working, "this is where I'd put a clock. I think it's been torn down or taken away, but the spot where it was is still here. It may have been very elaborate—Ah!" He's about two inches down, and has hit a flat rock, with more squiggles on it. "I think it's a cover," Daniel says. "You guys wanna help?"

We all start digging. It takes about fifteen minutes to uncover the whole stone, and then Daniel gets to start translating it. "This is it," he says, "if it's still here."

"Okay," I say. "So we should lift the cover away?"

"Yes," Daniel says decicively, then looks again at the stone. "I may need some help."

"We will do it, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c says. "I believe it is too heavy for one of your size." Daniel looks disappointed, but backs away and lets Carter, Teal'c and me lift the stone away.

We each take a side—okay, Teal'c takes two—and lift. The stone comes away, shedding dust as we lift it, and Daniel scurries forward to see what's underneath. "Wait 'till we put the cover down," I bark, suddenly having visions of Daniel being crushed underneath this stone like his parents were years ago. Daniel backs off, frowning, and we put the stone down carefully, a few feet away. "Okay," I say, "let's approach carefully, please."

There's a wobbly-looking staircase down which Daniel immediately takes a few steps, before I snag his shirt. "Do you even have a flashlight?" I ask. "How do you know it's safe?"

Daniel looks up, an annoyed expression on his face. "My flashlight's right here," he says, holding it up. "And what's going to hurt me after who-knows-how-many years this place has been abandoned?"

"A shaky ceiling, or a booby trap…"

Daniel sighs. "Okay, Jack, what do you suggest?"

I smile. "I suggest me and Teal'c take a look."

"Okay, but be careful."

I roll my eyes. "You don't have to tell _me._"

"Ja-ack! With whatever you find in there! Be careful!"

"Nice to know you care. Teal'c?" I say, grab Daniel's flashlight, and carefully walk down the stairs, Teal'c behind me.

It goes about fifteen steps down, then stops. There's nothing in the dank little cavern except a foot-tall pot, lid on, sitting in the middle of the room—well, it's more closet sized.

"There's a pot!" I yell up.

Daniel calls down, "Is that all?"

"Yeah. Well, there may be something in the pot, I don't know."

"Can you bring it up without breaking it?"

I look it over. "Think so," I answer. "Teal'c, why don't you back out? It'll be easier for me to bring the pot out." Teal'c nods and retreats into the sunlight. I carefully bend over and lift the pot in two hands, adjust it, and walk carefully up the stairs.

When I get out, Daniel says, "Set it down, please."

I put it down on the lid to the staircase, and back away, panting. "That thing is _heavy!_"

"Maybe it's our technology," Daniel says, carefully approaching the pot.

"Looks pretty small," Carter says, "but I guess we've seen smaller."

Daniel lifts off the pot lid and peers inside. "This is it!" he crows, carefully inserting a hand and pulling out a little box. It looks like the inside of a computer, with all the little lines running around it.

"What does it do?" I ask.

Daniel shrugs. "I dunno," he says. "Maybe there's more writing elsewhere in this place?" He looks at Carter for confirmation.

"Yeah," says Carter, "there's some in…that building." She points, and Daniel hurries over.

Daniel skims the writing—it's much less extensive than in the other room—and turns away. "It's just a prayer," he says. "Interesting, but doesn't have to do with this thing."

I smile. "So, are we done? We have time to make our leisurely way back to the 'gate, for once."

Daniel looks around. "Sure," he says. "We should bring the machine back with us, and I want to take a video of that prayer, but other than that, there's nothing else we need here."

So in five minutes we're heading out again.

* * *

"Something to do with time," Daniel says, gazing at the device.

"Time machine," Carter suggests, but Daniel shakes his head.

"Perhaps it is a stasis machine," Teal'c suggests, "one that may take one out of time."

Daniel shakes his head again.

"Alarm clock?" I ask, smirking, but Daniel gives me a _look._

We're sitting in Daniel's office, helping Daniel figure out the box-thing—well, maybe helping is a strong word. We're helping like Charlie used to help me fix the plumbing.

"Something to do with…time…and the mind," Daniel says. "The translation says 'youth' several times as well."

"Something like what happened with you and the Asgard," Carter suggests. "Giving someone _more_ time."

Daniel sighs. "_May_be. I should look at the translation again."

"I thought it was pure Ancient Greek," I say curiously, "and you'd have very little trouble translating it,"

Daniel grimaces. "Well, yes and no," he says. "Parts are very easily translated—for instance, the first part I was reading had to do with their culture, their religious beliefs, and so on. The part that talked about the machine was more like…bible verses, or a poem. I'm pretty sure they're not to be taken literally."

"Well, what's the direct translation?" Carter asks. Daniel hands her a piece of paper, and I look over her shoulder.

'_Turn back time, the mind appreciates youth/Time is the answer to all problems/Even the largest person can change his time/If it is too late, it is not too late…'_

I look up from the paper. "This is really,_ really _bad poetry."

Daniel wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, this guy was no Homer. It doesn't make any more sense in Greek than it does in English…We may never find out what it's talking about."

Carter sighs and stands. "Well, I've got reports to fill out," she says. "Let me know if you come up with anything."

"I too must leave," Teal'c says. "I have promised Lieutenant Corey that I will assist her in hand-to-hand combat training."

"Good," I mutter. "She needs it."

"Jack," Daniel admonishes, "that wasn't nice."

"I'm just sayin'," I protest. "She can't be more than…four foot eight. At most."

"She is, in fact, five feet and one inch tall, O'Neill," Teal'c says as he walks out the door.

"Whatever. My point is, she's short. So she needs as much strength as she can get."

"I'm short," Daniel says absently, turning the box over in his hands.

"Yeah, but that's different. You're physically six years old, and when you grow up you're gonna be a monster."

"I hardly think six foot is a monster," Daniel says, "considering you're only…what…a quarter inch shorter? Besides, it's almost May. That means I'm very close to being seven."

I snort. "You sound like every kid I've ever heard, talking about age."

Daniel smiles slightly. "When you're not even hitting double digits, you take what you can get. Hey, I think I found a button!"

I blink at the non sequitur, and when I realize he's talking about the machine, I say, "Hey, let me see!"

"It's right—"

A thought occurs to me. "Don't touch—"_ it._ Too late. A bright white light shoots out of the machine, followed by a wave of…something. It pushes me back a step, and I hit my head against the wall, hard.

_Ow._

I'm not knocked out, but I'm seeing stars a little. "Daniel?" I ask, as my vision clears. "You okay?" I walk around the desk, and see him lying on the floor, unconscious. I close my eyes. "Crap!"

I kneel down next to him and slap his cheek lightly. "Daniel, you okay?" His eyelids flutter, and then I can see those baby blues. "Hey, Daniel. Help me out here. Are you all right?" The eyes close again. "Okay," I say to myself. "Call Janet.

"Crap. She's gonna kill me…"

* * *

Heh. You guys are gonna kill me if I don't get the next chapter up, I think. Already working on it--my pre-beta (checks for likability... aka my sister) said, "Cut it there, or it'll be so long nobody will read it." And she's right. So...I _should _have it up in around a week... I hope.

Please review! I'll...serenade you if you review! (Or, if you so wish, refrain from serenading.)


	16. PanDannyMonium

This chapter is scary-long. Really. I thought I was getting long with 6000 words...but no! Emilie must write longer and longer chapters. It's not my fault; I'm just channeling a slightly insane muse...Okay, so it's a bad excuse. So it's just me writing a lot. And, possibly, writing a lot of junk. But read it anyway, please; maybe you'll like it!  
I hope you do, anyway. Enjoy!  
-Emilie :)

_

* * *

Jack_

"He just _had_ a concussion Colonel!"

"Yeah, I know that! It's not like I meant for this to happen!"

Daniel's currently lying next to me, in a hospital bed at the infirmary, still unconscious. They've ruled out spinal injuries, but they're still waiting for symptoms of _another _possible concussion. Janet says his pupils are good, and the CAT scan was good, but he may still have hit his head—and it's _my_ fault, ostensibly because I was _there._

"Two concussions in a row can be very dangerous, Colonel, especially in a child," Janet says. "The fact that he hasn't regained consciousness is a bad sign."

"Look, he pressed a button! _You_ know how he is about stuff like that!"

Daniel sighs softly, and shifts on the bed. I look at Frasier, who quits yelling at me and moves to the opposite side of the bed from where I am. "Daniel?" she says. "Daniel, it's time to wake up now."

He wakes up.

It's quite dramatic, actually: one second he's lying down, unconscious, and Frasier's talking about how he may never wake up again—which I think is meant to scare me more than anything else—and the next, he's sitting straight up, eyes wide open. He pants for a second, and then lies back. "What's going on?" he asks confusedly.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions, Daniel, okay?"

He glances at Janet, then at me, and nods.

"Okay. What's your full name?"

"Daniel Jackson. I don't like my middle name, so I'm not telling you."

I look at Janet bemusedly, eyebrows raised. She shrugs. "Okay, good. What's your birthday?"

"July eighth, 1966."

Janet nods. "Good. Can you tell me the name of the President?"

"Of the United States?" At Janet's nod, he says, "Gerald Ford. I think."

Um.

Janet just stares at Daniel for a minute, then says, "Okay, Daniel, thank you." She backs away, gesturing for me to come with her. Once we're out of Daniel's hearing range, she says, "I have no idea what that was. It could be due to a head injury, or it could be an effect of that…box he was playing with. Do you think you could ask some questions, figure out how much he remembers?"

I nod. "Sure."

As she walks away, I head back towards Daniel. "Hey," I say. "Remember me?"

Ah, the classical 'Duh' expression. "You're the guy who was here a few seconds ago. You were talking to the doctor over there." He points to where we had our little conversation.

"You don't remember me from before?" I ask. Gawd, déjà vu. I mean, he's already _had_ his memory erased. Why do the Powers that Be want to do it again?

"No. Gerald Ford's not the president, is he?"

"Not anymore. You're a little behind, I think. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was in my room at the Jameses' house. What's going _on?_ And why am I so small?"

"I don't know how much you remember, Daniel," I say, sighing. "You have to throw me a bone here. I know if you don't remember me, you think you're…oh gawd…twenty-nine at the most, or something like that. But I don't know, so you have to tell me."

Blink.

"Twenty-_nine?_ How old am I really? And if I'm so _old,_ why am I so _little?_"

"Hold your horses, will ya? How old are you? In your mind, I mean."

"Wait, Mister, I wanna know what's going on. How _old_ am I, according to _you_? Where _are_ we? _Who_ are _you,_ and why'm I _here?_" He looks ready go on for as long as necessary, and I lose my patience.

"Just…tell me how old you are!" I snap, and he stops talking, suddenly looking afraid.

"Nine," he answers, and then adds defiantly, "Almost ten."

I sigh, and put my face in my hands. I _so_ do not need this. "Gimme a minute, Daniel, then I'll explain, 'k? Sorry for yelling."

He nods, slightly in awe of me, and I seek out Janet. "I think it's the thing."

"The thing?" Janet asks.

"Yeah. The machine…thing. He thinks he's nine. That makes some sense, based on what he told me about it. How much am I allowed to tell him?"

"What do you mean?" Janet asks.

"Well, I was planning on telling him his life story from nine to thirty-eight, as much as I know of it, but if you think I shouldn't…"

Janet sighs, and rubs her face with her hands. "I _really_ don't need this…"

"Yeah, I was just thinking the same thing. Should I tell him?"

"Sure. I don't see what harm it will do. Do you have any idea how we're going to get him back?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Me? You gotta be kiddin'."

Another sigh. "I'll alert the General. And Sam and Teal'c, they'll want to know too."

I smile briefly. "Thanks. I'm gonna go tell that brat how much of a hotshot he is grown up."

I walk back to Daniel, who immediately says, "I'm not a brat."

I smile slightly. "How did you know I called you a brat?"

"I can read lips. Why'd you call me a brat?"

He so _is_ a brat. Reading lips… "Because you ask too many questions and you're too smart for your own good. It's a compliment, in a way. Wanna hear your life story?"

Daniel blinks, bemused. "Sure."

"Well, at nine you're living in foster care, right?"

"Yes," Daniel says. "Until I'm eighteen. And I can't _wait_ to get out."

I smile slightly. "Well, you're out. But you weren't out until you went to college, which…I dunno when. You may have skipped a few grades, and then you go to college, and graduate school, and get oodles and oodles of doctorates. Following me so far?"

"Yeah. What year is it?"

"The year when you've gotten your doctorates?"

"No. Now."

"Uh, it's 2005. Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?"

"2005?" he says, slightly awed, and then adds, "What do I get doctorates in?"

"Archaeology. And languages. Anyway, after you get the doctorates, you start talking about how pyramids were made by aliens, and even though you end up right, everyone in the academic community thinks you're nuts. The military hires you to do a translation job, and it turns out they've found a big ring that can form wormholes between two planets, called the Stargate. You convince General West that you have to go on the exploration mission, and you go with my team and meet a girl there, and fall in love with her. Meanwhile, you defeat a bad guy called Ra…you getting all this?"

"I defeat a bad guy called Ra? Like the Egyptian Sun-God Ra?"

"Yeah."

"Well…why?"

I frown. "Because he's _bad?_"

"This sounds like a bad science fiction movie."

"Well, it's _real,_" I say. "Shall I continue?"

Daniel sighs. "Fine."

"So you defeat Ra, and you stay with Sha're, your girl, for a year, and then she gets kidnapped and eventually…killed, and you come back to Earth and we spend our time going through the Stargate. Several months ago, you almost died on a mission, and some of our very advanced allies decided you should be allowed to live, so they made you a new body. Unfortunately, it only aged to six years before you started inhabiting it. So you're six and you live with me, even though your mind is thirty-eight."

"Okay. Suppose all this really happened…why am I nine if I'm six and thirty-eight, too?"

I frown. "Good question. You found some alien technology thing that made you think you're nine, is my only answer. We're gonna try to fix you."

Daniel pouts. "What if I don't _want_ to be fixed? I like my life."

I raise my eyebrows. "Really? Because the old Daniel never really said anything about liking his childhood."

Daniel glares at me and turns his head away.

I sigh. "Sorry. Look, you hungry? It's almost dinnertime. What's your favorite food?"

Daniel glances at me. "I like pizza," he says quietly.

I smile in relief. "We can definitely do pizza," I say. I was worried he'd say couscous or moussaka, or something really international and out there.

Daniel grins. "Pizza Hut? Is there one near here?" He looks around, and mutters, "Wherever 'here' is…"

I nod. "Sure. We'll get an airman to bring us some. What's your favorite topping?" For grown-up Daniel it's sardines with pepperoni. Go figure. Hopefully this Daniel is a little more moderate. Hey, he didn't ask for couscous, so…

"Sardines. And I like pepperoni too."

I sigh, feeling put-upon. "Sardines and pepperoni it is." I stick my head out the infirmary doors, snag an airman, and give him my request.

"Okay. It may be a while," I say. "In the meantime, whaddaya wanna do?"

Daniel blinks and shrugs. "I dunno," he says.

"Hangman? Scrabble? Wait, you always beat me at that. Uh…"

"Who are those people?" Daniel asks, pointing his chin at the door. I turn around to see Teal'c, Carter, and Hammond coming through the door.

"Those are the guys who go through the Stargate with us. Well, except for the old guy. He commands us."

"Old guy?" Hammond calls, quirking his lips.

I grimace._ Oops. _"Can you read lips, too, Sir?" Daniel smiles as Hammond raises his eyebrows in silent question. "Never mind," I tell Hammond. "Anyway, I meant… relatively."

"I am much older than General Hammond, O'Neill."

"Thank you, Teal'c," says the General.

"Your name's O'Neill?" Daniel asks.

"Well, yeah, but you can call me Jack," I reply. Daniel calling me O'Neill would be…too weird. "This is Carter, Teal'c, and General Hammond. You call Carter 'Sam.'"

"Sam's a weird name for a girl," Daniel says. "And I've never heard the name Teal'c. Is anything normal around here?"

"Sam is short for Samantha," Carter says. "Daniel, you don't remember anything?"

"No," says Daniel flatly. "I'm nine. I remember everything up to when I'm nine, because that's how old I am. Except, you know, when I was a baby, I don't remember that stuff. What about the name Teal'c?"

"My name means 'strength' in the language of the Goa'uld. I come from the planet Chulak," Teal'c says. "I was enslaved by Apophis as a Jaffa for many years."

Daniel blinks, bewildered—but he latches onto the name Apophis. "Apophis?" he says. "Like Apep, the evil demon of darkness? Is that why you have a snake symbol… thing on your head? He's _real?_"

"Indeed, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c says. "Apep was one of his many names; however, Apophis fell in battle years ago."

"Not _that_ many years ago," I murmur. Guy still gives me nightmares sometimes.

Doc comes over. "Daniel," she says, "do you think I could examine you more thoroughly now? I need to check some things."

"Uh…okay," says Daniel. "I guess." He glances at me, and I nod.

"We're getting pizza in an hour, Doc," I say. "If possible, try to be done by then?"

Janet smiles. "I think I can manage that, Colonel," she says. "Why don't you come back in thirty minutes?"

I take that as a dismissal, and leave post-haste—with the rest of SG-1 and Hammond behind me. "Briefing room," Hammond says, and I figure I've got some 'splainin to do.

* * *

"Let me get this straight," Hammond says. "This device made Dr. Jackson believe he is nine years old?"

I nod. "With all the memories of when he was that age, yes."

"How do we get him back?"

I grimace. "Well, it may be the device can do it for us, in which case we should get somebody who's good with Greek to look at it—and maybe someone from your department, too, Carter?"

Carter blinks, and frowns. "I don't have a department, Colonel."

But only because she keeps turning down the job, saying she has enough to do dealing with SG-1 and her own projects.

I sigh. "Well, _you_ know. Physics and machines, and…so on."

Hammond nods, and says, "Can you recommend someone to look at it from…that department?"

Carter nods. "Actually, Sirs, I'd like to take a look at it myself. I might have more insight into the mechanics of it, knowing more about…physics and machines and so on…than Daniel."

I squint my eyes. "If you shrink your brain, I'm not babysitting you. I've got enough on my plate with Daniel."

Carter smiles slightly. "I'll make sure to be careful, Sir."

I frown. "You do that."

* * *

After the meeting we all go our separate ways. I start to head back to the infirmary to be with Daniel, but as I'm leaving the room Teal'c asks, "May I accompany you, O'Neill?"

"Sure, big guy," I say. "I was going to the infirmary to be with Daniel."

Teal'c nods. "I am aware," he says.

We walk in silence for a while. We're nearing the infirmary when I finally say, "Anything wrong? You've been quiet…well, quieter than normal. What's up?"

"I am not normally a loquacious person, O'Neill," says Teal'c.

"Well, yeah, but…"

"I do not understand why, when the shit hits the fan, Daniel Jackson must always take the fallout."

I sigh. "Neither do I, Teal'c."

We enter the infirmary, and I see Daniel lying on one of the beds, hands tucked behind his head. The doc's working on something at the back. When he hears the door open, Daniel looks over at us, and then sits up. "Finally!" he says, and then calls behind him. "Dr. Frasier, Tilk and that Jack guy's here! Can I leave _now?_"

Frasier looks over her shoulder, smiles, and walks over to us. "Just a minute," she says to Daniel, and turns to me. "He's okay; no concussion. But I'm not sure what the other effects of this device there may be. It's possible this is it, but if anything unusual happens, give me a call, okay?" She turns to Daniel, and continues, "And that goes for you, too. If you start feeling sick, or different from the way you do now, I want you to tell Jack or whatever adult is closest. Is that understood?"

"Fine," says Daniel impatiently. "Can I go now?"

Frasier smiles. "Sure. And if there's any pizza left, save me a piece, okay?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Pepperoni and sardines, Doc…"

She winces. "Oh. Okay, never mind. Have fun, Colonel!" She smiles and starts to walk away—but before she does, she looks at the bouncing Daniel and says, "No coffee or soda!"

I wince. "No fear."

"Let's go-oooo!" Daniel says petulantly. "I want pizza!" He grabs my hand and starts pulling.

"This behavior is unseemly, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c says. "Please calm down, or we will not show you the pizza."

Daniel immediately stops bouncing, and his hand goes limp against mine. "I'll be good," he says, face serious. "Really. But I want pizza. I'm soooo hungry."

I smile. "Teal'c's just joking. You'll get food either way, don't worry. But the lack of bouncing is appreciated."

Daniel smiles. "Okay. I won't do it," he says quickly. "Can we get pizza now?"

I roll my eyes. "Sure. I told the airman to deliver it to your office, so let's blow this popsicle stand!"

"Is not the device still there, O'Neill?"

I frown. "I think Carter took it. We should be safe."

"What happens if I touch it again?" Daniel asks. "Do I turn negative a lot in my head?"

I wince. "I hope not," I reply. "Just…if you see it, avoid touching it. Really."

* * *

It looks like the pizza's just gotten there when we get to Daniel's office: it's steaming, and it looks really good—well, except for the sardines.

Problem, though: there are five pies.

Daniel's eyes widen, as he says, "That's a lot of pizza."

I blink. "Yeah. Good thing we have Teal'c here. Maybe I should call Carter in as well."

"I will do so, O'Neill," says Teal'c, and does so. Meanwhile, Danny and I check out the pizzas. They're all sardine-and-pepperoni pizza—I check. Heaven knows what the pizza guy thought of the order—and I'm slightly bemused that the airman thought SG-1 was weird enough for _this._

"Can I have some, Jack?" Daniel asks, and then quickly corrects himself. "I mean, may I have some?"

Oh, yeah. Linguist in the making. "Sure, help yourself. Want anything to drink?"

"Water," Daniel says, pulling a slice out of the first box and starting to munch as he sits on the couch.

I get Daniel his water from the fountain down the hall—there are always cups in his office, so I don't have to scrounge for one. When I come back, he's almost done with his first piece. Teal'c walks over from the phone, grabs a slice for himself, and says, "I have requested backup, O'Neill. Major Carter is coming."

I grin, take a slice for myself and start picking off sardines. "So, Daniel, what's your favorite subject in school?"

Daniel rolls his eyes. "Grown-ups _always_ say that. Anyway, I don't really like school."

I frown. "Why not?"

"I never learn anything, except maybe in math. I read all the textbooks at the beginning of the year, so I knew everything already when they covered it. It's boring."

"What would you rather do than go to school?" I ask.

Daniel shrugs. "It's not that I don't like learning. _You _know. It's just that I don't like pretending to learn when I don't ever get to. Or letting everyone know you know what's going on, and then you get picked on for being a geek." He takes a huge bite of his pizza, which temporarily prevents him from talking.

I get the message, and ask Teal'c, "When do you think Carter's coming down?"

"I do not know, O'Neill," Teal'c says. "I believe she was coming down immediately. The type of pizza which you ordered has enticed her."

I wince. "Her, too?"

Teal'c raises his eyebrow solemnly. "Indeed."

"How come you're always so serious?" Daniel asks Teal'c curiously, pulling a second slice from the box.

"It is the way of a Jaffa," Teal'c says. "A warrior's life is harsh. He must be able to withstand it."

"Oh," Daniel says, and takes a sip of water.

We munch happily on our pizzas for several minutes. Daniel starts his third slice—I never knew he was such a pizza lover. Soon Carter comes in.

"Hey, guys," she says. "I heard you have some pizza."

"Sardines and pepperoni," I mumble, chewing. I swallow, and add, with a gesture, "Help yourself. There's plenty. By the way, what's up with that machine? Have you found anything yet?"

Carter grabs a slice and sits on the couch next to Daniel. "Well, it's only been forty-five minutes," she says, "so I haven't gotten very far."

"What have you been doing?" I ask.

Carter raises her eyebrows. "If I tell you, you're going to be bored," she warns.

"Oh," I say dismissively. "Never mind then. But you'll figure out how to fix it, right?"

Carter frowns. "_May_be. I don't know. I've never seen a device like this before."

"What are you trying to do?" Daniel pipes up.

Carter looks at him. "Find out how to give you your memory back," she says.

Daniel frowns. "Oh."

I quickly change the subject. "So, who wants to play Scrabble? Daniel, you have a set, right?"

Daniel looks bewildered. "Um…I don't know…"

I wince. "Right," I say. The I'm-a-little-kid thing. Well, I _think_ you put it in here…" I rummage through the bottom left drawer of his desk, and come up with a battered Scrabble box. "Here it is," I announce, lifting it out. "Does everyone want to play?"

Everyone nods or murmurs in assent, so I clear away some space on Daniel's desk and set up the game.

It's an epic game, I'll say that. Everyone manages, for once, to hold his own, even Teal'c, who originally had a hard time understanding the concept behind the game. I get a fair amount of points for 'jiggle,' managing to get the 'l' on a double word space. Carter plays 'xylene,' which I challenge, but when we look it up in Daniel's humongo-big-and-expensive dictionary, there it is. But Daniel (sweet, innocent nine-year-old-ish Daniel) hits the jackpot, near the end: working off an 'x,' he manages to use up all his letters on 'coxcombs,' hitting a double-letter space _and_ a triple letter space, and using up all his tiles besides, which grants him a fifty-point bonus. From that turn alone, he gets 194 points. After that, we all know he has us. Carter plays a couple more clever words that I don't know the meaning to, but Daniel has such a lead that nobody catches up.

And Daniel and Teal'c keep eating pizza right through, too. I think at the end, Daniel's eaten eight pieces, and Teal'c's eaten something like two pies—which isn't _so_ much, considering it's Teal'c. But I'm kinda surprised Daniel was able to put away eight pieces.

It's 21.30 hours when we finish that game, and I say, "Wanna play another one?"

"I'm sleepy," Daniel says, yawning. "Can't you guys play while I sleep? I can do it right here," he says, patting the couch as his eyes close. "And then…you'll still have fun."

Carter, Teal'c and I all glance at each other. Carter smiles. "I think we're done, Daniel," she says. "Don't worry about us. We had lots of fun."

"'Kay…" Daniel says. God, if I thought he was cute when he first got turned into a kid, he's even worse now. "'m gonna sleep." He pulls his knees up to his chest and lays his head on them.

I smile slightly. "Why don't you guys clear on out," I murmur. "I'll clean up."

Carter nods and says, "Good night," while Teal'c bows his head with a smile, and they leave together. Probably Teal'c is going to meditate while Carter works some more on that machine.

I quickly clear up the pizza boxes, tossing the extra pizza in the big garbage bin outside—nobody's really gonna want that flavor enough to eat it cold except Daniel, and I figure he's had enough. I clear the Scrabble game away as well, and then turn to Daniel. "Ready to go home?"

He looks up, and blinks. "Home? Where's that?"

I frown. "Well, either a guest room or my house, depending on what Frasier says. I forgot to ask if you have to stay on base, so I guess our first stop's the infirmary."

"Okay," he says, getting wearily to his feet. I take his hand so he doesn't stop in a hallway to doze off, and lead him out the door, flipping the switch as we leave. After about twenty feet, I pick him up: otherwise it'll take us forever to get to the infirmary.

He drools on my shoulder in the elevator, but we're quickly in the infirmary. I sit him on a bed, where he happily stretches out.

After a minute, probably alerted by our resident Nurse Ratched, Doc comes over. "Problem?" she asks, concerned, but I shake my head.

"Nah, he's just sleepy. I wanted to ask if I could take him home or if we should stay in a VIP room tonight."

Janet frowns. "Well, I suppose you can take him to your house. But if something goes wrong, same rules apply: contact me right away. All right?"

"Peachy," I say, grinning. "Hear that, Danny? We're going home tonight."

Daniel stirs and sighs in his sleep. Doc raises her eyebrows. "Have fun," she says, walking away.

I pick Daniel up again. "Ready to go home?"

"Mmm," he says. "Home."

* * *

The car ride is uneventful. Daniel perks up a little when I get him out of the car, but I can tell he's still sleepy.

I carry Daniel to the house, and shift him from my right hip to my left when I get to the door so I can open it. As I turn the key, I hear Sirius snuffling and barking, clawing on the door.

Daniel looks up at me. "What's that?" he asks.

Opening the door, I reply, "Sirius, our dog."

"Oh," says Daniel, and he leans his head back against my shoulder.

Sirius jumps against my legs, dancing around us—he almost goes up to my knee. "Later, Siri," I murmur. It's amazing the weird nicknames you can come up with for animals. At the barbecue—when Daniel and Cassie were kidnapped—Carter took to calling Sirius 'Ree-ree.' Cassie called him Snuffles, apparently because that's what the dog in Harry Potter was called… I didn't get that one, really. Oh, well.

I carry Daniel to his bed and tuck him in.  
"Jack?" he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"I don't feel well."

Uh-oh. "What's wrong?"

"My stomach hurts," he says seriously.

"Think you need to throw up?" I ask. After hearing his symptoms, I remember the eight pieces of pizza, and I'm not so worried—but vomiting could be unpleasant.

"No," he says softly.

"Good. You probably just ate too much. Want some Pepto-Bismol?"

He shakes his head no.

"Okay… Want me to stay here?"

He shakes his head again. "I'll be okay," he says.

This kid turned self-sufficient way too fast, I think.

"Alright. Call me if you need me, okay?" Daniel nods, and I add, "Okay. Sleep well."

* * *

I'm woken at 0325 by a shout, and immediately go to Daniel's bedroom. It's a parent thing; when you hear a noise at night and happen to have a kid, you immediately go there, and often you're next to them before you're really awake.

"Daniel?" I ask, shaking him, trying to get him awake. "Daniel, what's wrong?" He's muttering and crying in his sleep. "Daniel!" I say, more loudly this time, and he wakes up.

"Um…Jack?" he asks, sleepy and upset, still trying to get his bearings.

"Yep, it's me. What's wrong? Feeling sick? Want me to get the Pepto-Bismol?"

He blinks and looks down. "No, I'm okay," he says softly.

I pause. _Yeah, right._ "Okay," I say, not pressing. "Want to tell me what your dream was about?"

He shakes his head mutely.

"You sure?" I persist. "Sometimes it helps."

He shakes his head again. "It was nothing," he murmurs. "I'm sleepy."

I sigh. "Okay. I'll see you in the morning."

"'Kay," he breathes, and closes his eyes again.

* * *

Daniel's obviously feeling better in the morning, because I can hear him puttering around half an hour before my alarm goes off. This definitely is still nine-year-old Daniel, I think; 38-year-old Daniel _never_ gets up earlier than he has to, unless there's a dig to…dig. Then I think, What the hell, I may as well get up.

He's in the kitchen, eating Rice Krispies. "Hi, Jack," he says. "I got cereal. You don't mind, do you?"

"Nope," I reply. "Up early?"

"Yup," he says, grinning. Yeah, he's better.

I get out my own cereal bowl as Sirius dances around my legs again, hoping for something to eat. I 'accidentally' drop some Froot Loops on the floor, and Siri starts cleaning them up with his tongue right away.

"Hey, Jack?"

I pour milk on my cereal. "Yeah?"

"What's your dog's name?"

"Well, technically he's your dog, and his name's Sirius."

"Like the dog-star?"

"Yup."

Daniel frowns. "Is he real?"

I frown, not sure where he's coming from. "Yeah, he's a real dog."

"No, I mean…you said Ra was real, and Apep…so is this Sirius the real dog-star? He doesn't look like a star."

I smile. "No, but we named Sirius after that star."

"Oh," Daniel says, and starts scraping cereal off the bottom of his bowl. "Are we going to that place we were yesterday?"

"Yes," I say, "but we don't have to be there for a while. Wanna do something in the meantime?"

Daniel frowns, thinking. "Like what?"

"Play chess, watch TV…"

Daniel wrinkles his nose. "What kind of TV?"

I smile. "Hockey?" Daniel frowns. "Uh, cartoons?" No answer. "Fine, history channel. Happy?"

Daniel grins. "Okay," he says. I'm not sure if the History Channel was around when he was really nine, but he seems to be happy about it now.

So we watch something about the Emperors of Rome for half an hour, until it's time to go. Daniel keeps commenting on it—not correcting, but adding on quirky information. It's pretty cool, too—I learn something, for once.

At 0700, I figure we should get going, so I switch the TV off. Daniel pouts for about three minutes, but quickly cheers up again. "What's it like going to other planets?" he asks, buckling his seatbelt.

"Pretty much the same as Earth," I reply, as I pull out of the driveway. "Lotsa cool people. Every once in a while you get some really, really neat stuff."

"Do you have fun telling people about it? What other planets are like? Do people get jealous of your job?"

I smile slightly. "Well, the Stargate is a secret. We're not allowed to tell people. The only people who know are the ones who work for the program and some really high-ranking officials in the government."

"That sucks," Daniel announces, and I chuckle. That's pretty much the best and most succinct way of putting it. Daniel continues, "I always thought there'd be flying cars and spaceships to Mars and stuff by 2005. I mean, people went to the moon _years_ ago!"

"Yeah…but there aren't any Stargates on the moon or Mars. Carter—sorry, Sam can talk to you about flying cars. I'm still waiting for those myself."

Daniel's quiet, thinking about that for a while. We're at the base in fifteen minutes, and Daniel quickly unbuckles and gets out. "What do we do today?" he says, walking around the car.

I sigh. "I do budget and requisition meetings," I say, taking his hand as we cross the parking lot. "You would, too, only you don't remember what you need. I figure I'll foist you off on Sam."

Daniel looks up at me. "Doesn't she have budget meetings too?"

I sigh. "She hasn't let herself become the head of the Science department, so she's safe. She works alone; all she has to do is say what she needs to the guy they chose because she wouldn't do it. Sometimes I get jealous. You have to sign," I say, lifting Daniel up so he can sign in. I signed off for him last night, because he was asleep. He seems to get a big kick out of signing his name.

Daniel pats my hand as we walk into the elevator. "I bet being the head of a department is a lot of responsibility," he says.

I shrug as the elevator door closes. "Well, I'm just the head of the SG teams, and they mostly know what they need. All I really have to do is figure out what SG-1 needs and compile it with the rest of the stuff. The real problem is defending all the stuff to the guys who come in and say we can't _possibly_ need this many field-dressings, and what do we _mean,_ we need more uniforms, we just _got_ some. That's what I have to do today." I shudder.

"Oh," Daniel says. There's a twelve-floor pause, and then Daniel says, "Budgets sound boring."

I laugh. "They really are," I say. "Really, really boring." We step out of the elevator, and head to Carter's office.

"When I'm with Sam," Daniel asks, "can I ask her about flying cars?"

I smile. "Sure, you can," I say, just as we step into Carter's office.

She's already there, and looks like she has been for a while, leaning over that little boxy machine that made Daniel think he's nine. When she hears us, however, she looks up. "Hey, guys," she says. "Sure Daniel can what?"

"Ask you about flying cars when he dumps me on you," Daniel says candidly.

I roll my eyes. "I just don't want you to get bored, Daniel. Trust me, you would with the meetings."

"I know," Daniel says, "but you said you were going to foist me off on Sam, and that's what 'foist' means." He grins cheekily.

"When's your meeting, Sir?" Carter asks.

I look at my watch. "Ten minutes or thereabouts. Can you take him?"

Carter winces. "For how long?"

I sigh. "Until lunchtime, at least. You're not free?" Daniel's head is whipping back and forth between the two of us as we speak.

Carter sighs. "Not really, sir. My dad and some other Tok'ra are visiting to give us some intel on Anubis, and General Hammond has requested that I be there, since everyone else is tied up with the budget today."

I sigh. "Isn't our timing just great?" I ask rhetorically. "D'you know if Frasier's free?"

Carter frowns. "She may be," she says. "I know the Medical department doesn't do the budget the same day as everyone else—probably because they need so much stuff," she adds, smiling a little. "You want me to take Daniel to her?"

"I'm here, you know," Daniel mutters. "You don't hafta talk about me like I'm not. And I can just sit in a corner somewhere, I won't bother anybody."

I look down at him. "I know," I say. "We're just trying to figure this out. But without someone to help you out, you'll get lost, trust me. I still do, sometimes, in this place." I turn back to Carter, and say, "I can take him to Frasier. Thanks for offering." I smile, take Daniel's hand—which he gives me reluctantly—and we start to leave.

"If you're not free in the afternoon, I can keep him company," Carter calls.

"Maybe," I say, turning around. "I might be free by then, in which case we'll probably take the day off. But if not, that'd help."

"I can tell you about flying cars then," Carter says, grinning at Daniel. "More importantly, other flying stuff, which is much cooler, since it actually exists."

Daniel grins. "Okay," he says, and I drag him out of Carter's office—not that I mind them talking, but I'm already going to be late.

We quickly get to the infirmary. "Doc?" I call, and she comes out of her teeny office.

"Yes, Colonel?" She looks at Daniel. "Is there a problem? Was last night okay?"

"Fine, other than a little bellyache from eating too much," I say, and Daniel kicks me gently, with a reproving look. "Stop that," I say quietly, and turn back to Frasier. "Anyway, he's here because he's developed a little allergy to budget meetings. Think you can keep him safely ensconced away from them until lunchtime? "

Frasier smiles. "I suppose I can manage that," she says. "Daniel, you like coloring?"

Daniel scoffs. "Coloring is for _babies,_" he says.

The Doc rolls her eyes. "I've got some cool coloring books I used in medical school," she says, offering her hand. Daniel takes it tentatively, and walks back to the teeny office with her. "They're fun, I promise."

* * *

The meetings are, as promised, boring. I have to fight for every band-aid, P-90, videotape and thumbtack the SGC might need for the next six months, and by the time I get out I'm exhausted. I don't get tired running six miles, but sitting in a chair talking about money wears me out: go figure. Guess I was never meant to be an accountant.

I go to pick Daniel up from the infirmary, and find him happily coloring on the floor in a detailed anatomy-themed coloring book.

"Look, Jack," he says, showing me his latest picture, "It's the alimentary canal! There's the esophagus, and the stomach. And here's the intestines!"

I look up at Frasier. "Corrupting him already?"

She grins. "It was a good way to keep him occupied," she says. "Going to lunch?"

I smile. "Yep," I say. "Want anything?"

She shakes her head. "I'm going a little later."

I nod. "Okay. Daniel, ready to go?"

"Yeah," he says, and picks up the coloring book. "Thanks," he says, handing it to the Doc.

"You're welcome," she says, smiling. "Anytime."

As we walk out of the infirmary and to the cafeteria, Daniel says, "Most of the time when there are coloring books it's something really stupid, like ponies or trucks. That was cool."

"Hey, trucks are cool," I protest.

Daniel grins up at me with that 'yeah, right' expression he gets. "You can do better," he says.

We have sandwiches and jell-o for lunch. "Are you done with the budget?" he asks, munching on his sandwich.

"Yep. Thank God."

"Can I look at the stuff where you found the machine that made me like this? Dr. Frasier said there was a video."

I frown. "Why?" I ask, curious.

Daniel shrugs, putting his mostly-eaten sandwich down. "Well…because, um… I don't know. You…you and Sam and Janet and Teal'c really, um…"

"We care about you," I prompt.

"Yeah," Daniel says. "And…you want the grown-up me back. Uh, the grown-up-brain me. Um."

"Right," I say slowly. "Because we think it would be better for you. So?"

"Well…maybeIcouldhelp," Daniel says quickly.

"You already tried to translate it as an adult, and failed," I say. "Maybe you could have figured it out, given more time, but…anyway, I didn't know you spoke—speak—Greek at nine."

"I do a little," he says. "My dad was teaching it to me—"

"When he died?"

Daniel frowns and looks down. "Yeah," he says softly. "That's what my dream was about last night."

"I kinda figured," I say. "It's okay to be upset. Kids shouldn't see their parents die."

"_People_ shouldn't see _people_ die," Daniel says fiercely.

I smile. "Yeah, Old Daniel thought—thinks—that too."

"Good," he says defiantly. "'Cause I'm right. Anyway, Mr. Jones says I shouldn't be unhappy about my mom and dad dying, because it happened almost two years ago."

"Well, you shouldn't _always_ be sad, yeah," I say. "Your mom and dad wouldn't want you to be sad all the time. And let's face it, you've had an amazing life--well, you can't remember that, I guess, but you have. I _know_ they'd be proud of you. But it's okay to be sad sometimes."

"I know," Daniel says quietly. "But some people don't think that, so I try not to be."

"Well, nobody here thinks that. At least, I don't think they think that. And if they do, they're wrong." I shrug.

Daniel smiles.

* * *

Carter's in Daniel's office when we go there to take a look at the stuff.

"Hi, Sam," Daniel announces, and Carter jumps, looking up quickly.

"I didn't hear you guys coming," she says, once she realizes it's us. "What's up? More budget meetings?"

"Nope, I'm done," I say. "Daniel wanted to look at the stuff we found on the planet yesterday, right, Daniel?"

"Yes," Daniel says decisively.

"Um, okay," Carter mutters, turning to Daniel's laptop and looking through the files until she finds the right one. She spends two minutes teaching Daniel how to go between the video file and the word documents of those poem things, which he made up yesterday. "These are the ones you said were relevant. I was looking at them earlier, but I couldn't make anything of them."

Daniel looks over the word documents. "Why does it talk about time so much?" he asks, after a few minutes.

Carter clears her throat. "You told us it had to do with Chronos, the God of Time. What do you make of it?"

Daniel sighs and turns around. "Nothing," he says. "I don't get it. Did I get it when I was big?"

I frown. "Not really."

"Oh," says Daniel, dejected.

"Don't worry, Daniel," Carter says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "We'll figure it out."

Daniel shrugs her hand off. "I just don't know if I _want_ to…turn back. I don't remember being big. But you guys want me to, and you're really nice…"

Sam smiles slightly. "Thanks, Daniel."

He skims the writing. "_The memory will return,_" he murmurs, and I look over his shoulder: it's a part of the poemy-bible thing I haven't seen before. "God, what does it _mean?_" Daniel says, scowling, and for a minute I'm looking at adult Daniel, frustrated over one conundrum or another.

"Don't worry about it, Daniel," I say.

He glances at me. "I don't know what any of this means," he says, dejected.

I roll my eyes, smiling. "Well, it had to happen someday," I say. "Why don't we go home and watch TV or something?"

"Okay." Daniel hops off the chair, glares at the computer, and then turns to Sam, and politely says, "Thanks."

She smiles. "You're welcome, Daniel."

Daniel smiles back, and then turns to me, saying, "C'mon, Jack. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Forget Frasier--I think _I'm_ corrupting him.

* * *

"Let's play a game," Daniel says suddenly, after drifting off for the third time during a hockey game we're watching.

As it's obvious that my team is losing abominably, I mute the TV and say, "Okay. Like what? More Scrabble?"

Daniel wrinkles his nose. "Nah. That game's too easy."

I smile. "Hockey? I've got a net and some sticks outside."

Daniel looks horrified. "No!"

"Okay, okay. What, then?"

"A questions game," Daniel says. "I ask a question and you have to answer it."

I blink. "That's it?"

"Yup."

"No me asking you questions? No rules?"

Daniel sighs. "Fine. I'll ask you a question, and you ask me one. Okay?"

"What type of question?" I ask. I remember this kind of game with Charlie: the kid practically asked me to read his mind, and if I didn't he'd get upset. Hopefully that won't happen with Daniel: we've both got enough to deal with, without that happening.

"Any type of question," Daniel asks. "But it can only be opinions, or facts that you know I already know. No asking the millionth element in the periodic table, or anything." He looks sternly at me. "Do you understand?"

I smile. "Yeah, I get it. You wanna go first?"

"Okay. What was your mom like?"

So I talk about my mom, Jennifer, and how her favorite flowers were the crocuses and how she made waffles for me and my Dad on Sundays, and how she died twelve years ago from cancer. "Is it my turn now?" I ask when I finish.

"Yep."

"Okay. What are the Joneses like? They're the guys you were living with, right?"

Daniel shrugs. "They're okay. They're not as cool as you guys. Or my parents."

"How many sets of foster parents have you had, Daniel?"

Daniel frowns. "It's my turn to ask a question!"

I hide a smile. "I beg your pardon."

"Good. Did you ever have a wife?"

I blink. "Yes, I did," I say slowly.

"Was she nice?"

I grin. "I thought you were only allowed one question at a time."

"That's only for you," Daniel says, "because you're the grown-up."

I raise my eyebrows. "How convenient," I say. "Yes, my wife was very nice. Her name was Sara."

Daniel frowns. "What happened?"

I look down. "Our son died," I say, looking at my hands, "and I was too upset about it to pay any attention to her for a while, and she left."

"I'm sorry."

I look up and smile. "It's okay," I say. "My turn to ask you a question?"

"Yeah," Daniel says, "I guess. If you want to stop, we can."

"No, it's okay. Okay, answer this: why do you want to fix your memories, remember being older again?"

Daniel frowns. "Well, because…I want to be big. I _always_ wanted to be big."

I sigh. "But you realize that the stuff you were looking at won't help you to be big again? The only thing it could possibly do is make you _remember_ being big."

Daniel shrugs. "I like _knowing_ stuff. As long as I know what it's like to be big…plus knowing all the stuff you say I know, that'd be really cool. Plus, size doesn't really matter."

I laugh, much to Daniel's perplexity.

* * *

We laze around for the rest of the day: I make peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches, which Daniel decides he likes, and microwave s'mores, which Daniel decides he doesn't like—probably because they blow up in the microwave and taste like charcoal. We watch Indiana Jones—it wasn't out in 1975. Grown-up Daniel hates it. He says it's completely unrealistic, and can't we just watch the one with the aliens again? But this Daniel thinks Indy is the best thing he's ever seen, and immediately vows to become just like him. I refrain from reminding him that he's already been doing this stuff for years.

Every once in a while, I get this niggling feeling that says this: _You should be doing paperwork._ But I ignore it.

Daniel seems to sleep a lot, too. It seems like every time I look at him, he's dozing off. And more often than not, it ends in nightmares.

"I _hate_ bad dreams!" he says, pounding his little fists on the couch. "Why can't I have nice dreams like everyone else?"

I shrug. "Well, everyone else gets bad dreams sometimes."

Daniel frowns. "But not ten times every day," he says. "Anyway, it hasn't been this bad since the time when my mom and dad had just died."

I nod sagely, putting that away in my head so I can tell Janet later—maybe it's a clue as to how Daniel got this way.

He dozes off again around 9:00 PM, and this time he seems like he's really out. I know that if Frasier doesn't hear about his nightmares soon, she'll ream me out, so I find her number and dial.

Cassie answers before the first ring has finished. "James?" she says breathlessly.

I frown. "Definitely not," I say. "Who's James?"

"Oh, hi, Jack," Cassie says. "James is…my boyfriend. And if you scare him off like you did Dominic and Maurice, I'll never speak to you again. What's up? I'm waiting for a call."

"I'd gathered," I say dryly. "Whatever happened to that Norman guy? I thought he'd be scared by the stuff I told him…"

"Nicholas had his head up his butt anyway," Cassie says. "I was waiting for a good time to break up with him when you gave him The Talk and scared him off."

"Glad to be of service," I mutter, then say, "Can I talk to your mother for a minute?"

"Sure. Mom!" she yells. "Phone for you. It's Jack." Talking to me again, she says, "Are you and Daniel okay? I mean, you're not bleeding all over the kitchen floor or anything dire like that, right?"

I roll my eyes. "Would I be chatting with you about scaring your boyfriends if I was?"

"I guess not," she says. "Mom's here. Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I _always_ take care of myself."

Cassie snorts. "Yeah, right. Here's Mom."

"Colonel, what's wrong?" Frasier's cool voice comes over the phone. I know that if I told her I'd just cut my finger off, she'd stay just as calm. Which is reassuring, really.

But happily, that's not what's going on right now. "Daniel's having nightmares," I say without preamble.

"More than one?"

"Yeah. Well, every time I turn around, he's dozing, and if I let him be for more than half an hour, he starts dreaming about that accident his parents had in New York, when they died."

"It may be PTSD," Frasier says. "If they're bothering him, he should speak with a psychologist."

I frown. "But we're going to get him to remember, right? So he won't need that."

"At this time we don't know how to do that. Colonel, it really would be advisable for him to talk to someone."

I sigh. "Well, not Mackenzie," I say. "Daniel will kill me if I put him in that idiot's hands."

"As a matter of fact, we've recently added a child psychologist as a part-time staff member. Daniel recommended him, in fact."

I frown. _Daniel_ recommended a psychologist? "Do you need a child psychologist badly enough to have one on staff?"

There's a pause. "Well, we've had several incidents involving children, Colonel. Cassie probably could have benefited from talking someone who was experienced in working with children, but nobody who fit that criterion had security clearance. Then there was Charlie, that kid created by the Reetou, and Merrin, and maybe even Ryac when he was brainwashed. And now this situation with Daniel—"

"_Mom!"_ I hear in the background. "I'm waiting for a _call!"_

The Doc sighs. "I'll set up an appointment with the psychologist tomorrow, okay? And remember, Daniel's also scheduled to meet with me or another doctor on staff at 1100 hours tomorrow. I have to go; Cassie's waiting _very_ impatiently for the phone."

We exchange goodbyes and hang up. Twenty minutes later, Daniel has his nightmare again.

* * *

_Daniel_

We're in the really long elevator thing—the second one down. Jack's holding my hand, and I keep having to pop my ears or they start to hurt.

"Why do I have to see a psychologist?" I ask Jack. He told me Dr. Frasier got me an appointment with one, and I don't think I'm happy about it. I know about psychologists. They ask the kind of questions that are none of other people's business, and if you don't answer, they think you've got something to hide. If you _do_ answer, it's worse, because then they give you a silly diagnosis.

Jack sighs. "You've been getting a lot of nightmares, Daniel. Remember? Doc Frasier thinks this might help you."

"Did grown-up Daniel get nightmares?"

"Sometimes, when bad stuff happens to us, we all get nightmares. But everyone gets nightmares sometimes. When you get lots of them, though, it can mean something's wrong."

I frown. "Like what?"

Jack shrugs. "I don't know. Stuff that I was never taught a lot about. Dr. Frasier thinks it might be PTSD."

"PTSD?"

"Post-traumatic stress disorder—it's something that happens to people when they've been in a traumatic experience. Nightmares can be a symptom."

I frown. "Oh."

"Yup."

We get off the elevator and go right to the infirmary, where Jack says I have another doctor's appointment. I don't know why I get so many.

"Oy, Doc!" Jack calls, when we see that Dr. Frasier isn't around. "We're back!"

Dr. Frasier pokes her head around her office door. "Be with you in a minute, Colonel," she says. She retreats into her office for a few seconds, then comes back out. "Hello," she says, smiling. "We have to make this quick; Daniel's appointment with Dr. Kenneth is in fifteen minutes."

Jack looks at his watch. "Where are we meeting him?" he asks, as I climb onto the exam table.

"Dr. Mackenzie has offered to let Dr. Kenneth use his office," Dr. Frasier says. "You know where it is, right?"

Jack rolls his eyes. "Only too well," he mutters.

Dr. Frasier starts by poking the spot behind my ears, and moves her fingers down my neck. Then she starts doing all her other doctor stuff, with the arm cuff thing that takes blood pressure, and the thermometer, and the little flashlight that she sticks in front of my eyes. Then she steps back. "Are you feeling okay?"

I shrug. "Fine," I say. "Kinda tired."

"Colonel O'Neill says you've been having trouble sleeping because of nightmares," she says seriously.

I look down, embarrassed. "I guess," I mutter.

She smiles suddenly, and rubs my back. "Your appointment with Dr. Kenneth," she reminds us, and Jack takes my hand again.

* * *

"Hello, Daniel," Dr. Kenneth says, ushering me into his office. He told Jack to wait outside, so I'm alone with him. "Nice to see you again."

I frown. "I don't know you," I say.

"Right, well, Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Frasier say you've lost almost thirty years of your memory, so I don't expect you would know me. I met with you once before, although you mostly lied to me that time, because I didn't have security clearance." He smiles. "But that's not what we're here to talk about. Do you want to tell me about your family?" he says, picking up a pad of paper and a pen.

I shrug. "My parents are dead," I say. "Nick works in Belize."

"And who's Nick?" Dr. Kenneth asks, scribbling notes on his legal pad.

"My grandfather. He's an archaeologist."

"Do you remember your parents?"

"Sure," I say. "They only died two years ago."

"Longer than that, Daniel," the doctor says gently.

I shrug irritably. "Well, in my memory it was two years ago. So, yeah, I remember."

Dr. Kenneth smiles. "Fair enough," he says. "Will you draw me a picture?" He gestures to a pad of white, unlined paper on a table next to me, along with crayons, markers, and pens.

I pick up a piece of paper and a pen. "A picture of what?"

"Your parents," he says

So I sketch my mom and my dad, and when I look at the picture it seems really plain. So I put the cover stone behind it, doing squiggles where the hieroglyphs are supposed to be—I don't remember what they were anymore. Then I get up, hand the paper to Dr. Kenneth, and sit back down.

"What's that?" he asks, pointing to the coverstone.

"That's the artifact my parents were working on for a year before they died," I say.

"That's how they died," he says quietly.

I nod, looking at my hands. "The chain snapped, and…they were crushed."

An image flashes in my head, and I blink. "Can I have another piece of paper?" I ask.

"Sure," says Dr. Kenneth. "Go ahead."

So I grab a second piece and draw the symbol quickly—a shen, or a circle with a line under it. More slowly, I draw symbols that I can barely remember, carefully looking at them once I'm done to make sure they're right. "There," I mutter, putting the pen down.

"Can I see?"

I stand again to hand the paper to the doctor, noticing as I get up that my head feels funny—dizzy, sort of. I close my eyes, holding tight onto the arm of his chair to avoid falling.

Dr. Kenneth looks at the drawing. "That looks like the Stargate addresses they showed me," he mutters. "And that looks like the Stargate—a simple depiction, but…"

"It's a shen," I mutter. "Symbol of protection. I thought the others were…just pictures…"

"Daniel," says the doctor, "are you all right?"

I blink, opening my eyes, but all I can see are black dots, swarming. Dr. Kenneth says something else, but his voice sounds far away, and my breath sounds loud in my ears. I close my eyes again, gripping the chair tightly, trying to regain my balance, but I can feel myself falling. Hands catch me, and I sleep.

* * *

_Jack_

The doctor pokes his head out. "You may want to come in, sir," he says. "Daniel's fainted."

I get up quickly and hurry into the office, Dr. Kenneth moving out of my way. "What happened?" I ask, kneeling beside Daniel. He's laid out flat on the floor, and looks white and delicate.

As I check for a pulse, the doctor says, "He was showing me a drawing when he fainted. I caught him as he fell, and then I called Dr. Frasier."

"I can't find a pulse," I fret. "But he's breathing."

Dr. Kenneth nods. "His blood pressure is probably too low. Dr. Frasier should be here soon."

And there she is, along with a gurney and a nurse. "Doctor, Colonel," she says, moving toward Daniel at least as fast as I did, and kneeling at his other side. "What happened?"

Dr. Kenneth says pretty much what he told me, and I add, "I couldn't find a pulse."

"Don't worry, Colonel," she says, "he's breathing. Daniel, can you hear me?" When Daniel doesn't respond, she says, "Can I have a BP cuff, please?"

The nurse hands her one, and Doc pumps the thing up.

The Doc mutters something about Daniel's blood pressure being low, and then does some more doctor things—the penlight, and her stethoscope and stuff. "Has he been conscious?"

"For a few seconds," Dr. Kenneth says. "He opened his eyes and looked around. I don't think he really knew what was going on."

"Okay. Let's get him to the infirmary."

Dr. Kenneth watches as I help lift Daniel up onto the gurney, and they roll him away. I follow, jogging to keep up. Since we're still in the medical wing, we quickly get to the infirmary proper. The Doc starts calling out for stuff, and I try to stick close to Daniel.

His eyes start fluttering. "Daniel?" I say.

Dr. Frasier quickly turns to look into Daniel's face. "Daniel, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," he says groggily. "Jack?" He turns towards me and blinks slowly.

"Yup, I'm here. How do you feel?"

"Dizzy," he mutters. "What happened?"

"Your blood pressure is low," Dr. Frasier says. "We're going to hook you up to an IV." She turns away and starts speaking in medicalese again.

"What happened?" Daniel asks again.

"What do you remember?" I counter.

"I was in Dr. Kenneth's office…"

"Right," I say. "You fainted. You're in the infirmary."

"Why?" he asks, screwing up his face.

"The Doc says low blood pressure. She's running some tests."

"Oh." Daniel yawns. "I'm tired."

I frown, thinking. "I think you're allowed to sleep."

"Good," he mutters, and closes his eyes.

At some point they've hooked him up to an automatic blood pressure cuff, which started beeping as soon as it was put on since Daniel's blood pressure was so low. It suddenly stops, and Frasier looks over at it.

"Blood pressure's back up to normal," she says, looking at the monitor, and then tells the nurse working beside her, "I guess we don't need that saline after all."

The nurse nods and walks away.

"Daniel," Frasier says gently, putting her hand on Daniel's little cheek, "I need to talk to you."

Daniel opens his eyes reluctantly. "Jack said I could sleep."

"I said I _believed_ you were allowed to sleep," I correct. "Apparently I was wrong."

Daniel pouts. "What, then?" he says.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Daniel. Can I go to sleep now?"

"Your full name, Daniel."

He sighs. "Daniel Jackson."

I smile. "I thought you had a middle name."

"Which is none of your business," he mutters. "Let me sleep."

I look at the Doc. "I don't think he hit his head this time."

"I know, Colonel. Daniel, what's your date of birth?"

"July eighth."

"Year?" I ask.

Daniel smiles lazily. "Now, that would be telling," he says.

I glance at the Doc. "Sounds like old Daniel," I comment.

"Yes, it does," the doctor says. "Daniel, what's the last thing you remember?"

"Wishing with all my heart that I could just go to sleep," Daniel says, glaring.

Frasier just looks at him.

Daniel sighs. "Being in a psychiatrist's office, thinking I was nine years old."

"So you remember the Stargate?"

"Yup. Can I go to sleep yet?"

Janet sighs. "One last question. Who's the president?"

"Of which country?"

Frasier closes her eyes. "Daniel…just answer the question. Please."

"Henry Hayes. He's very nice. Are you happy? Can I sleep now?"

"Yes," says Frasier. "Thank you." She turns and walks away, obviously irked with Daniel's contrariness.

I'm not, though. He's back!

* * *

Daniel's sleeping, and he's fine, so after I sit with him for a while, I figure it's okay for me to go and catch up on some of the paperwork I neglected when I was taking care of the real little-Daniel. Dr. Kenneth comes in almost as soon as I start, though, so I don't really get much work done.

"I'm not bothering you, am I?" he asks, standing in the doorway.

"Nah," I say, "not really," and put the paperwork aside—it wasn't much fun anyway. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, at the time we had bigger things to worry about," he says, "but now we know Daniel's okay I thought it was worth mentioning." He hands me a piece of paper. "Daniel was showing me this when he fainted."

I look at the paper: at the top is a circle with a line directly beneath it, which looks sort of like a Stargate, sitting on a flat patch of earth. Below that is a Stargate address.

I look up at the doctor. "He drew this before he remembered…the last twenty-something years?"

Dr. Kenneth nods. "I don't know much about this Stargate stuff, Colonel, but I thought it might be worth telling you about."

I nod. "Thanks. I'll bring it up next time I'm with him. I'll see if I can find out what it's about."

The doctor smiles, nods, and leaves.

* * *

"A shen," Daniel says.

I frown. "Thanks, that makes it so much clearer."

We're looking at the picture while sitting in the infirmary, because Frasier wants to make sure Daniel doesn't suffer a relapse. Daniel fiddles with the sheets with one hand while tracing the shen with one finger. "The shen represents eternity and protection," he says. "Technically, it's a picture of a rope with no beginning or end."

"And the Stargate address?"

Daniel sighs. "The coverstone my parents were working on when they died…there was always one little piece that fascinated me. It looked basically like this—with a shen, and the seven funny little pictures below it. I'd forgotten all about it, but…I guess when I thought I was a kid I remembered it better."

"So…this is a Stargate address? That was on your parents' diggy coverstone thingy?"

"Well, yeah. It sure looks like one, anyway."

"You want to go there?"

Daniel shrugs. "It would be pretty cool." He's trying to look nonchalant, but I can tell he really wants to go.

I try to distract him. "So the point of that device that made you think you were a kid…was just a memory device?"

"Maybe. It's not entirely clear, but that may be its purpose. That might be why I was having all those nightmares—I was trying to remember the coverstone, but that memory kept getting in the way. So, can we go to the planet with this Stargate address?"

I frown. "We have to send a MALP first, and then a preliminary team before you can go. After that…maybe."

Daniel pouts. "Fine," he says. "But at some point I'm going."

"Only if you tell me your middle name," I tease.

Daniel frowns, first in confusion and then in annoyance. "Jack, that's blackmail."

"I freely admit to that," I say, getting up. "How badly do you want to go?"

"You're incorrigible," Daniel complains.

"Yup. Tell me your middle name," I say, now at the foot of the bed.

"No!"

"Fine," I say. "Don't go on the mission." Daniel looks outraged, and I smile. "You don't have to tell me yet. We don't even know if you're allowed yet. But if it's cleared for you…"

"I hate you, Jack," Daniel says, folding his arms. The look is slightly ruined by the grin that creeps onto his face.

"I love you too, you monster. I'll catch ya later; I have paperwork to do."

* * *

I have two rubber ducks. One bites people who decide not to give reviews, and one nuzzles those who do--and also they tell Santa that you've been a very good little boy or girl this year. Your choice. ;) 

Seriously--please, I love you all, review.

Your frazzled writer (who is _sorry_ she didn't post for a month when she promised a week, she didn't _mean_ to),  
Emilie :)


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